


Water

by ghost_gang



Series: Necessary Elements [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blind Character, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Getting Back Together, I am a fool, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Minor Kate Bishop/America Chavez, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Recovery, Slow Burn, character(s), familiar bucky, there's three of them, very slow, why did i make it this slow, witch steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-01-17 15:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12368364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghost_gang/pseuds/ghost_gang
Summary: With Hydra cracked and crumbling, Bucky Barnes makes his escape out into the real world. His new (stolen) wand in hand, Bucky knows that it’s his job to find and destroy the last remaining bits of Hydra, as well as try to piece back his memory in the process.Meanwhile, Steve Rogers has a lot on his plate -- he wants to find Bucky, but also needs to protect himself, as well as the four young Seers, from the government. And with no sign of Bucky returning any time soon, he may have to come to terms with the idea that Bucky may not want to be found at all.(3/3)





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any new readers: you're not going to understand this AT ALL if you don't read the other works first. Sorry!

######  **BUCKY**

> ENTRY #1

_If you only remember three things, let these be it:_

  1. _You did some fucked-up shit this past year. You hurt a lot of people. That can’t happen again.  
_
  2. _To your knowledge, you have one family member left—Rebecca Barnes.  
_
  3. _Steve Rogers gave you your chance to escape.  
_



_These are the facts. These are the most important things that you could possibly remember. These things are your purpose._

_There are other facts: your name is James Buchanan Barnes, and don’t let anyone tell you differently. Your birthday is March 10th, your parents were named George and Winifred Barnes. You have a sister, Rebecca._

_You haven’t talked to her in years, now. The last time you saw her was years ago. At least five years ago. Goddamn. _

_Okay, okay, slow the fuck down. One thing at a time._

_You fucked up a lot last year, but you can make things right. Your purpose, right now, is to take down Hydra, one base at a time. Don’t let any of those bastards go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody! We're done with the really heavy shit! You made it through! 
> 
> This work is going to be pretty different from the last one. We won't be dealing with Hydra's dark shit, at least not up close and personal like we did in the last one. From now on, all we have to deal with are Bucky and Steve being dumb shits, together and apart. :^) 
> 
> I'm still in the planning stages, so don't expect another chapter for a little while now, but I'm doing this work for NaNo (yes I'm cheating), so hopefully I'll get a lot written in the next month, and then I can revise a lil bit and start updating regularly. Yay!!! 
> 
> Anyway, Happy Halloween! Enjoy this teaser :P


	2. Grindstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I got very busy this last month with finals looming over my head, so forgive me for the very long wait for this chapter. 
> 
> Also, while planning this out, I started to take a different direction than where I was planning to before. So that’s another reason why this has taken a while, but I think this way is better.
> 
> this wasnt proofread! and i dont care bc its two in the morning and i wanted to post it bc ive changed it like fourteen times in the past two days

###### STEVE

## A Month After ‘Insight’: What We Know Now, and What Questions We Still Have

by THE EDITORIAL BOARD

NEW YORK CITY, New York — Last month, the world was forever changed when former Senator Pierce was named to be a high-ranking official of an elite non-magic supremacist cult, known to the public as Hydra. While the media and general public were skeptical of the findings at first, the evidence was substantial enough to be at least troubling to investigators and government officials.

Indeed, public opinion changed when Pierce was arrested as he walked up the steps to the Capitol building. At first, Pierce denied the claims that he was affiliated with Hydra in any way, but eventually confessed when faced with overwhelming evidence. While the trial for Pierce’s impeachment was set for a few months from now, he has since resigned from his position.

What was even more disturbing was Hydra’s association with Strike Co., who had been using the company as a front to hide its motives and experiments. At Pierce’s confession, Strike Co. factories and headquarters have since been shut down and searched. In the span of two weeks, at least fifty Strike facilities were raided and found to be overrun with Hydra agents with unsettlingly powerful weapons and invasive laboratory experiments with—yes—human test subjects.

Most people who had bought Strike technology fled to rival company StarkTech, where CEO Tony Stark has offered to exchange any Strike laptops, computers, and phones for a StarkTech piece of equal or lesser value.

“If you can tell me who to thank for that, feel free to give me their phone number,” Stark had said when contacted for comment.

Stark has claimed that, while it ended up being an exciting victory for his business, he had no direct hand in Strike’s downfall.

“Happy accident,” he said.

Another piece of the puzzle we are now aware of is the true nature of Project Insight. Many arrested Hydra agents have since given bits of information about Insight—also known as Bill 904 with Congress—a bill that Pierce had been pushing heavily for; the so-called “preemptive elimination” bill seems to have dark connotations now, considering the context of the situation and the man that had been spearheading its ratification. It is now suspected that Insight was a loophole designed to give Hydra all the wiggle room it needed to grow strong and spread its ideology nationwide and—eventually—globally.

The bill would have allowed for any person deemed a “threat” to the security America and its peoples to have been “eliminated” using any means necessary; this was originally thought to be a tactic to fight the war on terror, but it now seems that Pierce may have been using this to carry out Hydra’s grand plan for nationwide control.

While we are still learning about Insight, what is known is this: certain Seers were involved in its devising, as well as an elite kill squad known only as the Wolf Spiders. While no known Wolf Spiders have been arrested yet, and no special Seers found, ex-Hydra agents report seeing the Seers in question disappearing with a man after the raid that started this whole incident to begin with.

“The pieces are coming together slowly,” President Thomas said in his speech last month. “But we’re starting to see the bigger picture now, and how everything is connected.”

Indeed, the pieces are starting to come together. But, in the meantime, we still have questions—how did Hydra grow so large and manage to stay unnoticed? How many government officials have fallen under Hydra’s influence? Is this a problem limited to the United States, or is it global? Who leaked the information to the public? And, most importantly: where are the Seers and Wolf Spiders mentioned in Project Insight?

More details are expected to be known soon, but the information cannot come fast enough.

+++

Steve sets the newspaper aside, tossing it onto the wooden dresser drawers. It lands with a papery _whap_ on the wooden surface.

There are boxes scattered around the room that demand his attention, but everything has made him so tired — he just wants to sleep, he doesn’t want to unpack — but if he wants to get anywhere near his bed, he’s going to have to get rid of some boxes first.

He sighs and starts in.

There’s a big box on the bed labelled _BOOKS_ with big, black letters. He tears the tape away, throwing it off to the side somewhere for him to deal with later. The whole box is filled nearly to the brim with books, the first being something he hasn’t even touched in a long time. Steve takes the book, folds it over in his hands. The rough leather binding and ornate decoration—his spellbook. He hasn’t touched this thing in a little over a year. The last time he remembers casting a proper spell was before Bucky lost his arm.

Tony had gotten people to pack up Steve’s things. This is his second change of residence in the last two years, and he’s getting a little tired. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to fully unpack the first time around.

His new home is secluded, but nice—a relatively large cabin in the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains. Steve told Tony that he didn’t need to bother, that he could find residence on his own, but Tony had insisted. He was already hiding the Seers here and needed someone to stay with them full-time, as Pepper was getting a little sick of it and wanted to go back to actually working.

With the full knowledge that this would mean becoming a glorified, full-time babysitter, Steve accepted Tony’s offer. The four Seers were good kids, and they all needed a little love — and, of course, training. Steve may not be a Seer, but these kids had greatly enhanced, witchy powers that Steve figured he could help them learn how to control. He had helped Bucky do somewhat of the same thing.

Well, not really the exact same thing. But he had helped Bucky.

He goes back into the box, pulling out another, smaller book—and has to sit down on the chair next to his bed.

Steve remembers this book — _The Little Prince_. His mother read it once to him as a child, but he hasn’t read it since. He found this when he was moving out of the brownstone, with Bucky’s things. It must have been one of his favorites — it was the only book in his room when Steve moved out of the brownstone. Steve opens the cover, sees that it was lent out by the New York Public Library. Steve is surprised, then laughs a little bit. He wonders what kind of fine this book has — it is well-past its return date.  

Steve flips through a few pages when he finds a drawing in the middle that catches his eye. It shows a boy with a very long scarf, near what seems to be a fox. The text describes a fox that longs to be tamed, even going so far as to ask the little prince to do so. _Please—tame me!_

Steve wonders if Bucky would still like this book now.

He sets the book aside, the idea a little too painful for him to deal with right now.  
After the raid, Steve searched for Bucky with all he possibly could, but other than Bucky telling Steve’s teammates to come retrieve him from the burning Hydra facility, there was nothing—no one knew where he went and no one has seen him since. Steve wouldn’t even know where to start looking.

Try as he did, there really was no trace of Bucky. And a part of him knew that if Bucky wanted to be found, he’d make it a little more obvious than this.

Natasha told him that when Bucky was ready, he’d come to Steve. He took her advice and stopped looking, even though it felt a lot like giving up.

Then, a week ago, Natasha had warned him that it was probably best that Steve leave the Tower—Tony had thrown the Feds off the trail for now, but there was bound to be some sort of connection between him and Steve at some point, and Tony really shouldn’t take the fall for Steve’s crimes.

It was still unclear whether or not Steve was considered a suspect, but he’s sure that Tony would tell him when they know for sure.

So now here he was, living with the Seers; Tony thought it was best that they hide them away from the reach of the government, where no one could touch them.

Steve wonders how Bucky is supposed to find him now.

He sorts through the rest of the box, wondering how he’s managed to accumulate so much stuff in his life. There are books in here that he hasn’t touched in months and months. At the time, they seemed so important.

When he finishes putting the books on the shelf in his room, he moves onto the few boxes containing his clothes. They’re all folded neatly inside, so it’s not hard to transfer them from the box to the dresser, mostly t-shirts and jeans now that Natasha pointed out that wearing khakis and button-downs made him look like an eighty-year-old.

Steve looks up at the clock and sees that it’s nearly ten o’clock — Tony said he’d be leaving by ten-thirty, so Steve sets out to get breakfast before he says goodbye to Tony.

Making his way down the stairs, Steve tried hard not to make too much noise. Surprisingly, he is usually the earliest riser of the bunch.

However, this morning seems to be an exception. When he gets to the living room/dining room downstairs, he finds an empty cereal bowl and spoon on the table. Rolling his eyes, he immediately knows the culprit.

“Peter,” Steve calls, annoyance prickling his skin, “what did I say about leaving dishes on the table?”

Steve hears a distant yell of _Sorry, dude!_ He shakes his head and picks up the plate and cutlery and brings it to the kitchen and drops it into the sink. It clatters loudly at the bottom.

As Steve returns to the living room to make sure everything is clear, he hears the telltale click-click-click of a cane on the wooden floors—the sound of someone moving around the house.

Peter walks into the living room flops onto the sofa with practiced ease, kicking his feet up onto the arm of the couch, his headphones in his ears. Steve smiles at the sight and returns to looking for Tony.  
Peter has come a long way since Steve first found him in the basement of the Hydra base. He was half-dead with infection when Steve had first picked him up, just a goddamn kid. Now he’s almost healed completely, thanks to Stark’s never-ending vacuum of cash and resources.

The blind Seers are quite a marvel to Steve — whatever Hydra did to them, it’s made it so that they can easily sense their surroundings. While it’s not the same as having sight, they’ve managed to almost memorize the layout of the cabin in pretty short time. Either way, Steve’s been instructed not to move the furniture.

Steve’s not sure exactly what’s been done to them. He knows that their abilities aren’t just limited to seeing the future. Wanda has hinted that perhaps there’s more than just what meets the eye, but Steve hasn’t seen anything fantastically out of the ordinary yet.

“Hey,” Steve says.

Peter takes an earbud out and says, “Yeah?”

“Coffee?”

“Yes please,” Peter says, smiling.

He makes himself a couple slices of toast and brews a pot of coffee for himself. As the smell fills the kitchen, he starts to feel himself wake up a little, becoming a little bit more human.

He pours himself and Peter a cup, dumps a few packets of sugar into the cup meant for Peter, and goes back into the living room, handing the boy a mug.

Peter takes it when prompted, sniffs it, and says, “This is black.”

Steve looks at his own mug and says, “What?”

“This has no sugar in it.”

Steve frowns and takes a tentative sip of the mug in his hand, and indeed, it has sugar in it.

Steve takes the mug from Peter’s hand and switches the two, saying, “Show-off.”

“You think it’s cool, admit it,” he says, a big, shit-eating grin on his face. He takes a big sip and promptly burns his tongue.

Steve smiles and rolls his eyes. “It’s hot,” he says, useless.

Peter scowls in his direction. “Yeah, I got that.”

“Peter, Steve,” Wanda calls, “come on. We’re waiting for you upstairs.”

Steve takes Peter’s mug, still mostly full, and puts it on the table next to the couch so that he can stand. Peter feels around for his cane, snapping it out when he finds it.

They make their way, upstairs and to the deck, where Tony is departing. He took a quinjet here and he’s supposed to be back in New York by tomorrow — Steve is sad to see him go, but the look on Peter’s face is heartbreaking: he really likes Tony and really seems to admire him. Steve knows he’s going to miss him.

When they make their way onto the deck, the engine on the quinjet is already running, blowing the air around. Steve’s hair flies every which way, and Peter reaches out to grab Steve’s arm, steadying himself. America, Kate, and Wanda are already on the deck, standing next to Tony. America and Kate are still in their pajamas, blinking blearily in the morning light, when Steve arrives next to him.

“You keep disappearing, people are going to start asking questions,” Steve shouts above the noise. “Wonder where you’re running off to.”

Tony turns around when he hears Steve’s voice, giving a little tilt of his head. “I’ll tell them that I’m visiting my dumbass friend, how about,” he says with a smirk. “Wouldn’t be lying.”

“Ha ha,” Steve deadpans. But he straightens up and goes to clasp Tony’s shoulder. “Really, though, Tony,” he says. “Thank you.”

“I thought I told you to stop doing that,” he says primly, putting on his sunglasses.

To be honest, Steve is kind of sad to see Tony leave. He had decided to stay a few days to help Steve get settled, but Steve kind of thinks that Tony really just wanted to get away from the Tower for a little while. The downfall of Strike Co. really helped for business, but everybody was in overdrive to try to keep up with the sudden spike in demand, and that included every single one of StarkTech’s workers — call operators, retail workers, CEOs.

He had left Pepper in charge while he was gone. Steve knew that the company was in good hands, but Tony still worried.

Tony hugs Steve, and gives Peter a hearty clap on the shoulder.

“I’ll check in soon,” he promises, and then Tony makes off to the quinjet, giving Steve one last wave before he takes off. Once he’s out of sight, Steve takes a deep breath, feeling strange.

Everyone seems to be in such a hurry to get on with their lives, and Steve is stuck here, unable to leave for fear of getting arrested.

Sure, he has the Seers, but in his mind he’s well and truly alone. No close friends nearby, no people his own age.

“Let’s go, kiddos,” Steve says.

Peter looks a little put-out, not his usual energetic self. He knows Peter admires Tony, and Tony likewise appreciates Peter — Tony is always especially fond of those who appreciate his intelligence.

“Are we training today?” America asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “If you go get ready.”

The cabin has a workout room in the basement. Tony has very much left Steve to his own devices. He’s not sure what Tony thinks the training will entail, but Steve, right now, just wants to a) teach the kids how to control their magic, and b) perhaps teach them how to use wands. No fists, no fighting—just, for once, letting them be kids, before he puts the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Either way, Steve goes to change into workout clothes. Just as he starts to head out of his room, he notices the last box in his room, opened up to reveal yet another thing that he hasn’t thought about in a long time: the box of stones that Bucky had gotten for himself when he had started first learning spells and rituals.

He carefully takes the wooden box out of its confines and blows the dust off of it. He thinks of the first time he opened this box, finding all the little stones with their labels, written on small pieces of paper that Bucky made himself.

Steve opens the box now and finds only one missing—the stone he had pocketed when he first moved out of the brownstone in Brooklyn—the moonstone. Good for divination, water magic.

Love spells.

It just hits him sometimes. He’ll be doing something absolutely mundane and wonder what Bucky is doing. He’ll be reading and wondering _if Bucky would have liked this book?_

It was worse when he first lost him, forgetting that he was gone for a couple of moments and then turning around to ask him a question, only to be faced with an empty apartment and no one to talk to.

It just hits him sometimes, how much he fucking _misses_ Bucky.

It’s sad, knowing that he’s out there, now, and not knowing what he wants. If he wants to stop running, if he wants to come home, if he just wants to be alone.

Looking around the room, he thinks that the safest place for Bucky, in this country, would be here: right next to Steve. But he has no idea where Steve is, or how to even find him.

Steve looks at the stones in his hands, then the books on the shelf— _The Little Prince_ , his spellbook.

He wonders… he wonders. Is there possibly a spell he could use to possibly track Bucky down?

More importantly, _should_ he track Bucky down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly idk if I should make this work longer than planned and just have three works in the series, or if i should have four? yes im still on this issue, im very indecisive


	3. Past Lives (Pt. 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long long wait on this chapter! it's been a few hectic weeks, and i thought i was going to get time to write over winter break but i did not, and then i had to post for stucky secret santa and i was meeting with PEOPLE and FAMILY and FRIENDS and i just didn't find the time to write in this story. however, i now have the logistics for this story all mapped out, so chapter should be much easier to get out from here!
> 
> also, this was not proofread, im just posting this before i have to go to class in the morning so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. i hope you like the chapter! we go back to bucky's POV next chapter :^)

Steve puts down the box of stones and tries to rationalize with himself.

There’s a part of him aching, aching, aching to find Bucky. To bring him home and wrap him up and protect him from the scrabbling fingers of other people — Hydra, reporters, police. Steve can’t protect him from everything, he already knows that. But here, tucked away in the safety of the mountains, Steve feels it would be a hell of a lot harder for other people to lay their fingers on him.

But he knows that’s not how things work anymore.

Bucky isn’t the same guy that Steve brought to the Brooklyn brownstone, almost two years ago now. Just based on what he’s seen, Bucky doesn’t want to be touched. He probably doesn’t want to be coddled, or wrapped up, or protected. Steve doesn’t know Bucky anymore. Though, if Steve’s being honest with himself, he’s not really sure he knew Bucky to begin with — the guy was sparse with information regarding his parents and his sister. The only thing Steve really knows about any of them is that his parents both died, and that his sister is living with another family… somewhere. 

Regardless, Bucky isn’t the same guy anymore. A guy doesn’t go through trauma like that and come out unscathed. Even the kidnapping alone would have changed him — not to mention the probable torture and memory wiping. 

Steve doesn’t know a lot about who Bucky is now. But what he does know is that if Bucky wanted to be found, he would make himself a little easier to find. If Bucky wanted Steve to find him, he’d come to him.

He has to give Bucky the dignity of his choice. He can’t take that away from him by trying to find him, chasing him down into the ground. Hunting him like a dog. 

And, perhaps, he has to start thinking that maybe Bucky won’t ever come back to him. 

Thinking back on it, it would make sense—Steve knows how, before Bucky had trained with and eventually gained feelings for him, Bucky had wanted nothing to do with Bonding. With witches in general. The night they’d met, Bucky had told him that the only way he’d agree to coming with Steve to Brooklyn is if he agreed that they wouldn’t Bond. And while eventually Bucky had changed his mind, it was only so Steve would be stronger in order to do his job better.

Before Bonding, Steve knew what he was in Bucky’s eyes: a symbol of the way society felt about familiars. Inadequate, weak, a chain to hold him by the neck. 

If any of those feelings have been left over now, it would make sense as to why Bucky doesn’t want to associate himself with Steve now. He’s had enough restriction, enough weakness, enough chains for one lifetime. 

Heart heavy. But that doesn’t matter right now. There are four Seers downstairs waiting for him. He just needs to do what he’s good at.

And as he gets up, he realizes that he  _ is  _ good at this: training cunning folk, helping people. Yeah, he was an agent for SHIELD, he guesses he helped people that way, but he never felt truly adequate at that. Steve always felt tired and stiff working that job—itchy under the pressed cotton collars of his dress shirts, like there wasn’t enough coffee in the world to make researching and writing reports interesting again. 

He just wants to help. That’s all he’s ever wanted to do. As a kid, he wanted to be a firefighter. Then a nurse. Then a soldier. A police officer. The asthma knocked out the possibility of the soldier and the firefighter, and not being able to afford college on top of piling medical bills blasted the possibility of being a nurse out of the water.

(Steve always found that a little ironic. He was in and out of the hospital so much that he might as well have had on-the-job training.)

After the serum, he had joined the army, for a little while. He’d wanted to go to college — but his mother was dying, and he knew that army insurance was the best. He was a year and a half into his designated two years when his mother died of ovarian cancer. He finished his last six months and then he was out — and it was Peggy who’d referred him to Nick Fury. They met, they talked, and Steve had a job starting in two weeks.

And he sucked at it. He never went through Quantico, never had police training—only military. They basically had to teach him on the job. And while he rose through the ranks, stopping just shy of an administrative position, Steve never felt comfortable in this job. The military was different—he was doing that for someone else, and he could see evidence of his work: children in war zones had fresh water, they had food, supplies, that  _ they  _ had brought in. He could touch the people he saved—shake their hands, kiss their babies if they so wanted. 

But the Feds always come in after everyone is already dead. They got the Ten Most Wanted, and ten more took their place. And ten more took  _ their  _ place. They researched. They went into the field after too much deliberation, only for things to go haywire at the last minute anyways. The same thing, all the time—just someone else killing people, someone else torturing someone. It didn’t matter—they may look different, but they all carried the same gun.

Training the Seers, though—that’s different from anything he’s done. It’s dynamic, always moving, always different. He taught Bucky how to become settled in his own skin. He can do it now, again, with these kids—Wanda, Peter, Kate, America.

 

They’re young. Three of them are in high school — Peter is fifteen, Kate and America are seventeen. Wanda is the oldest at twenty-two. Steve isn’t that much older than her, but by his age magic is much easier to control. In any sense, it’s understandable that magic is simply bursting from their bodies.

He remembers being that young, feeling the power of magic for the first time. Magic is finicky, and it can’t really be trusted to be consistent, but it’s generally observed that two magical parents usually have magical offspring. However, with Steve’s mother being a witch and his father being human, Steve could have ended up either way. It was only a matter of waiting to find out. 

When Steve felt that magic for the first time, he was—of all things—afraid. Magic, again, is finicky—it all depends on the soul, and Steve had never really searched his. He didn’t know what lay within him, he didn’t know how to control it. The power was immense. It was terrifying. He learned science in school, math, social studies. All these things were governed by laws, made easy by practice, simple in their repetitions. 

Steve never learned magic. No one ever learned magic. It was seen as something to learn in homes, in private, the education of the kids dictated by the magical parents of the child. And if those two parents were human who, by chance, had given life to a magical child—good fucking luck. 

But with the way the Seers are acting, they don’t seem to be falling under the same magical teenage crisis that Steve went through—he suspects something else entirely. 

Because, first of all, they’re tired. Not just in the way that teenagers are generally lethargic, no. They simply don’t sleep. Kate and America share a room right across from Steve, and though they retire at about the same time as him, he can hear them chattering or moving around in the late, late hours of night, and the early, early hours of the morning. 

He wants to know why this is, and if he can possibly help them. Ease the burden, so to speak—he knows they must be carrying the world.

+++

He gets downstairs, and they’re all waiting for him by the door. Steve suggested that they do their training outside—while it would be nice for them to train in a gym-like setting, like he and Bucky did, he knows it’s better this way, when they are much younger, their power flows more willingly, and there’s four of them rather than just one.

He smiles at them, tiredly. Wanda reflects the sentiment.

They’ve only had one training session so far, and that was mostly just them getting to know each other. Steve gauging what they already know, what they can do, what they seem wary of doing. Nothing more—no spells, no tests of strength or pushing limits, just an easy flow of conversation so that they know they can trust Steve.

Three of the four Seers are witches—Wanda, Kate, and America—while Peter is a familiar. Steve isn’t sure how that managed to happen, as he’s never actually met a familiar with the natural-born power to See, but he won’t question it. Stranger things have happened.

They’re dressed in athletic clothes, ready to move. Maybe a little cold for the outdoors this early in the morning in the mountains, but Steve is sure they’ll be fine.

“Ready?” Steve asks.

“Been ready for fifteen minutes,” Kate says, a wry smile turning up the corner of her mouth. “What, did you get lost or something, old man?”

“It’s hard for us elders to get around in such high altitude,” Steve says, leading them out the front door. “It’s not good for my aging lungs.”

Wanda guides Kate by hooking their arms together, who hooks her arm with America. Peter holds on to Wanda’s bicep on her free side, and Steve leads the chain of Seers out of the house.

“Step,” Wanda warns, as they step off the porch. 

“I should have just brought my cane,” America says.

“Do you want to get it?” Steve asks.

“No,” she says, deadpan. 

Steve snorts and says, “Alright…” and leaves it at that. 

There’s a little clearing not far from the cabin, with relatively flat land and short grass. Steve made sure that the grass stayed cut and low so they can move a little easier, but also because Steve didn’t want insects and shit like that to have better places to hide.

“So,” Steve says as they stop in the clearing. “Tell me what the issue is, again?”

The Seers all unhook their arms, spreading out a little, naturally diffusing across the surface. From what Steve can gather, the Seers can kind of sense their surroundings even if they can’t see it. Hydra seems to have taken their naturally heightened senses and increased it to superhuman lengths.

They spread out across the clearing, evenly spaced, enough room for them to move freely in their own space.

“Guys,” Peter says, making everyone perk up to listen to him.

“Did you know,” he continues, as he shuffles across the grassy forest floor, “that you’re never more than eight feet away from a spider?”

Wanda narrows her eyes. “That’s not true.”

“It’s true!” he insists.

“What about the people in space?” America says. “They’re hundreds of miles away from spiders.”

“Okay, that’s, like, the  _ one  _ exception,” Peter allows.

“What about scientists in Antarctica? Or the people who live really close to the north pole?” Wanda jumps in. 

Peter’s head wrinkles in thought. “You mean Alaskans?”

“No, I don’t mean Alaskans,” she says, rolling her eyes. “The natives in Canada. Why would I have meant Alaskans?”

“Alaska is basically Canada anyway,” Peter says, gesturing flippantly.

“It definitely isn't.”

“I thought she meant Alaskans, too,” Kate tells Peter.

“Oh my God,” Wanda says. “I didn't mean Alaskans.”

“Guys,” Steve says, cutting this off before it could go much further. “Training?”

“Oh, right,” Peter says, as the others grumble their assent.

Steve half wants to roll his eyes, but he can’t deny that he’s filled with a divine kind of fondness for these kids — after all they’ve been through, they haven’t shut down or tried to turn away from each other, they’re not at each other’s throats. Steve can’t say that he’d be the same way if he’d gone through the same thing.

“Alright,” Steve says, clapping his hands together. “Tell me a little bit about what’s going on.”

For a second, none of the kids move. No one seems to want to be the first person to admit something’s wrong, even though they all feel this way. But then Wanda speaks up, saying, “We can’t sleep.”

Steve nods, figuring that this would probably be a part of it. “Nightmares?”

“Kind of,” Kate cuts in. “I mean, that’s if we can get to sleep to begin with.”

Steve nods, goes on to say something, but America says, “Every time I close my eyes for more than half a second, I start getting visions. They just start pouring in.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, uncharacteristically quiet. “I mean, a lot of Seers get visions that they can’t control sometimes at random times, but these are different. There’s so many of them, all the time. They keep me up.”

Steve nods, trying to think of the best course of action. He’s never known many Seers, just Wanda, and their problems are quite specific to their abilities. Steve takes a deep breath and says, “Okay. There a few things we can do. I want your opinions.”

The Seers all nod, saying, “Okay,” or “Yeah, sure.”

“We could try meditatio—”

“No,” Wanda says, rolling her eyes. “Please don’t be one of those people who suggest meditation as a cure for everything.” 

Steve chuckles. “I’m not. I just thought that it might be helpful in this instance to help clear your mind.”

“I don’t know if that will work,” Kate says warily. “Don’t we have to close our eyes for meditation?”

“Usually,” Steve says. “It’s just a suggestion. Either way, try it before you go to sleep tonight to see if it’ll help. If it doesn’t we can try something else.”

“Like what?” America asks.

“Certain spells. They might tire you out, make it easier to sleep.” The Seers nod, like the idea intrigues them. “Or you could try divining the old fashioned way, using a crystal ball. Transfer your energy into stones, see if that will help.”

The Seers look grim, like they don’t think any of these will work. 

“Or,” Steve says, a smirk on his mouth, “we could just exercise.”

“Ew, no,” Kate says.

“No,” America adds.

“Jesus, Steve,” Wanda curses, making a face at him. 

Steve cackles and instead turns to Peter, who seems to be picking at the hem of his shirt.

“What about you?” Steve asks him. “Peter?”

Peter’s head pops up. “What about me?”

“Yeah, what’s your familiar form?” Steve asks him.

“I don’t know,” Peter says, dropping his hands from his shirt. “I haven’t settled on one yet.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “But you’re comfortable in your ability to change into your familiar form?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “I’m good at that. It’s just — sometimes I change into different things when I’m there, and I can’t control it. Or stop it, I mean.”

Steve thinks about that. “Huh,” he says. Usually, when a young familiar hasn’t settled on a form, they stick to one animal per “change” of form — not several animals within the same change period. That’s highly unusual, so unusual that Steve has never heard of it happening before.

Because he’s curious, Steve says, “Show me.”

Peter nods, backing up a few steps. His body changes, melting from human into a monkey.

It’s kind of ridiculous, actually. Steve chuckles, as does Wanda. 

Peter bounds away from Steve, making his way to a smaller tree. He jumps inside and starts climbing with ease, gaining altitude in the pine tree. He lets out a monkey screech that makes the four of them chuckle.

As he makes to jump from one tree to the next, Peter changes into a bird mid-swing, and he recovers quickly. He’s small, some sort of sparrow, but he changes again with small burst that makes some feathers fall out — now he’s a hawk.

Steve laughs and says, “Alright, Peter, time to come down.”

But something is wrong: Peter is changing form too quickly, and he can’t control it. It’s not too long before he changes again, to something that can’t fly—

“Peter…”

—and it’s true that he can’t control it, just adapt quickly. He changes from a bird to a bat—

Stomach lurching, Steve teeters forward on his feet, starting to move. “Watch out!”

—back to human form, mid-flight, and starts tumbling towards the floor—

“No!” Steve yells, and tries to run, going to catch him, but he doesn’t know if he can make it, doesn’t know if he can catch Peter without hurting him. He’s so high in the air, and Steve isn’t sure if the trajectory is right, but—

But after a moment, he realizes that Peter has stopped falling. Not just gradually, or stopped by impact, just… stopped. Suspended. In mid-air. 

Wanda is holding her hands out in front of her while a red, mist-like substance flows from her fingers. Peter is floating, held aloft by— _ whatever _ the fuck is coming from Wanda’s hands. 

“Holy shit,” Steve says.

“What’s happening?” Peter asks.

“Is Peter alright?” Kate asks.

Steve watches as Wanda lowers Peter to the ground safely, tipping him so he’ll land safely on his feet. The mist retracts, and Peter is fine, but Steve is starting to see that perhaps this is more than he could have possibly imagined. He turns to Wanda.

“Do that again.”


	4. Longing / Rusted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! Thank you for waiting so patiently for the chapter; if you read my update I told you guys that I would be writing more chapters at once so I would be able to give you guys a more structured posting schedule. I'm pretty sure (90%) that this is going to be the last installment of the series, so just know that we're getting to the end here! This installment is so different from how I thought that the series was going to turn out, but I'm glad it's going this way because it's so much more fun to write.  
> The next chapter is already written; it's a little bit longer than usual, but I'm sure you guys won't complain about that. I'll post it this coming Sunday, I think :)  
> Anyway, thank you for waiting so nicely and being so loyal to this work. I'm so happy for the people that have been with me since the beginning, and grateful for the people who have just found and consumed it all in one sitting. You're all so important to me! ily <3

######  **BUCKY**

His face is everywhere.

Everywhere he turns, he sees himself—grainy footage of himself sauntering out of the burning Hydra HQ wreckage, black and white images of his face on every news channel or magazine cover. He pulls his hoodie up to keep himself from being recognized, but he knows that this can’t last forever—everyone is on high alert, looking for the Wolf Spiders.

He’s read the newspaper articles, he’s overheard people talking at bus stops and in restaurants. Under their loud opinions, under their garish upset, he can tell they’re all afraid. People are so used to believing they’re invincible—tragedies happen, yes, but not to _them_. Terrorists attack, but they don’t attack _them_. People disappear, but not _them_. People are shot, people get hurt, people die, but not _them_.

Well, this _is_ happening to them, and they don’t know how to handle it besides raising their torches and pitchforks, heading off into the world to shoot any man that fits Bucky’s description.

Night is falling, and Bucky is going to have to find somewhere to sleep because he’s been walking all day and his feet are absolutely killing him.

It’s been a few weeks since his escape. He’s tried to remember more, but his notebook remains empty as always. It’s like walking in his house with the lights off. In theory, he knows where everything is, but it’s unfamiliar at the same time. Dark. Scary, even.

Exhausted, he ducks into an alley. Not for the night, just to sit down for a second. His knees creak when he bends them, finally plopping down with a sigh, feeling instant relief as he he takes the pressure off his feet for a moment. Then he rests his head on his knees when he pulls them close to his chest. _Fuck_.

He knows three things for sure, written in his notebook. The rest is up in the air.

Bucky doesn’t know where anyone is. He doesn’t remember the exact location of his sister—he knows that he left her somewhere for her own safekeeping, but he can’t remember the exact address. And Rogers—that guy could be anywhere, for all Bucky knows.

Digging into his backpack, he pulls out his notebook and his wand, one in each hand. The wand feels strange. It tingles and pulls, like it has a mind of its own, like it’s prickly and upset for being torn away from its master.

Earlier this week, he had decided to perform a spell. The wand had other ideas, but he wants to try again, just to make sure. It remains still and silent, except for that silent pull away from him.

“Fuck you,” he tells the wand, when it refuses to perform the spell he needs it to. It sits there, stubborn, as if giving Bucky a silent, _Yeah? Well, fuck you too_ , _pal._

He’s trying to cast a glamor spell—something to temporarily mask his appearance. Bucky knows, deep down, that perhaps the only thing holding him back from being completely unrecognizable is a decent shave and a nice haircut, but he doesn’t have the money for such amenities, and now the wand doesn’t want to cooperate with him. When he tries to cast the spell a third time, it just spits a few sparks and shakes violently in his grip, distressed.

He pulls out his notebook, deciding to document another fact.

+++

> ENTRY #2

_The wand is a dick._

+++

He sets the notebook aside in favor of studying the wand with a closer eye. He brings it close, looking at the tiny sigils etched on the two prongs in greater detail. They are laser-precise, and the wand is made of smooth, unblemished wood, sitting nice and proper in his hand like it belongs there.

Obviously not, though.

The wand worked when he was healing that man—Steve Rogers, his mission, his (dare he say) _savior_ —but not now. Why is that? Does the wand only work in conjunction to Rogers, or is he just not using it right? Is it reluctant to serve him because he stole it away from its owner?

And, really, when he searches his memory—though it’s not a complete record—he’s sure he’s never seen a wand before. In fact, he’s sure that they aren’t supposed to _exist_.

But he knows, undoubtedly, that _this_ is a wand. Or at least has the principles of one.

He pulls the notebook towards him again and opens it up. Flipping through the pages, he goes back to his first entry, reading it over and over. He wants to remember. He wants to embed these thoughts so far into his brain that it’s impossible for someone to pick them out. If someone wants to take his memories again, they’re going to have to drill into his skull and pull them out by hand. He’s not giving up these ones so easily.

Bucky wants, somehow, to get back to Rebecca Barnes, Steve Rogers. Maybe find the graves of his parents. He knows that they died, but he can’t quite remember the circumstances around it. Everything is fuzzy. He can’t remember much except for brief, vague flashes of things — a poorly-lit bar, a blond man smiling. A girl with dark brown hair. A blindingly white landscape, and a coldness that penetrated the layers of his clothes, down into his skin, piercing his bones, tearing at his heart.

He doesn’t write that one down.

But if he wants to know who he was, if he _thinks_ of who he was, he comes up blank. He doesn’t know who he was, only the people he knew—Rebecca and Steve. Other faces float to the surface of his mind: his handlers, Alexander Pierce, a boy with feathery, silver-white hair.

Instead, he thinks of the last time he saw his sister, and wonders where she could possibly be now. Hell, he doesn’t even know where _he_ is.

He doesn’t have a lot. Where he sits in this alley, all the things he owns in the world are within his field of view: backpack, notebook, wand that hates him, clothes that are torn.

He gets up, packing his things back up, and starts walking back down the street, hoping to find a grocery store somewhere so he can possibly buy something to eat. He hasn’t eaten all day, and walking all day probably didn’t help his predicament. He considers briefly changing into his familiar form to scrounge up some sympathy, but he knows that will only work on the humans, who can’t resonate with him.

He finds a grocery store about two blocks from his alley, and heads inside, knowing full well that he looks dirty and possibly deranged. He hasn’t washed or brushed his hair in a long time, and he knows he ought to get a brush so he can do that at some point, but he has a total of seven dollars to his name and wouldn’t be able to remember the PIN number to his debit card if he even still had it.

He can get quite a lot with seven dollars, it turns out. He finds a loaf of bread for about two and a half dollars, and a jar of peanut butter at a discounted price of two dollars. Pleased with this, he heads to the front to pay for his groceries.

To his dismay, all the self-checkouts are blocked off by a line of stanchions, possibly because of the late hour. Bucky frowns and hovers by them for a second, but decides that it would be worse to call attention to himself by asking if he could use one than just going to the cashier.

He makes sure his hood is secured over his head, and then makes his way to the checkout counter, money in one hand and bread and peanut butter in the other.

Bucky makes his way over to the cashier, hands him his things to be scanned, and then stands and idly looks at the display of magazines and newspapers. To his horror, a blurry, black and white image of him making his escape from the Hydra facility is plastered over _The National Enquirer_ , with the caption “President Thomas: ‘I Knew All Along!’”

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere,” the guy says.

Bucky looks up, realizing that he’d zoned out for a minute. He feels his eyes slide back to the cover of the tabloid, and then shrugs at the cashier.

“People tell me that a lot,” he chokes out, but it doesn’t sound genuine. “Just one of those faces.”

The guy smiles and nods politely, looking like he wants to say something else, but the awkward silence stretches on. Bucky is looking around, trying to think of something that will excuse him from the conversation before this guy figures out who he could possibly be.

“That’ll be four ninety-eight,” the cashier says. Bucky hands him a five and the guy presses a button to open up the cash drawer. Just as he goes to hand Bucky his change, though, he pauses.

“Wait,” he says. He frowns, looks so hard at Bucky’s face that he squints, and says, “I swear, I know you.”

Panicked, Bucky starts leaning away, wanting to run. His fingers twitch, and he goes to take the groceries before the realization dawns on him, and it’s too late. The guy’s face changes, going from open and polite to hard and hostile in the space of a breath.

“You’re—” he starts saying, but Bucky isn’t listening. He takes the groceries from the man’s grasp, and starts fast-walking out of the store. He hears the man yell, “Hey!” after him, and Bucky thinks he hears footsteps, but maybe he does or maybe he doesn’t, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. He books it out of the entrance.

If he calls the police, Bucky has a maximum of five minutes before they show up.

“Please,” he begs — who, he doesn’t know. Maybe God, maybe the wand in his hand. “Please, get me out of here, take me where I need to go.”

He slashes the wand in front of him, and about twenty feet away, something happens.

It’s less like looking at a portal and more like seeing a mirror in the middle of the street; free-standing and reflecting a completely different view than the sight he sees before him. The wand in his hand has torn a hole in the air in front of him, a rip straight through reality. The sound it makes is absolutely devastating, but he doesn’t have time to think about it as he runs straight towards it. He dives through, hoping that he’ll make it through the other side.

+++

When he hits the ground, he doesn’t know where he is.

He knows he dived through to the other side of the—whatever it was. Portal, or something. More like a rip in reality.

When his body hits the ground, all the air in his lungs rushes out with a _whoosh._ It takes a few moments for him to first catch his breath, and then actually push himself up into a standing position. Wherever he is, it’s unseasonably cold.

Brushing his hands down his front, Bucky realizes that he’s covered in dirt and pine needles. He looks up with a frown to see where the hell he’s wound up.

For some reason, he thought that he’d end up back in a city. He asked the wand to send him where he needed to go, and he’s not… sure… why he assumed he’d end up in another city setting. Maybe because that’s where most of his life has been centered around, the past two years.

Wait, what?

No, no, that’s _right_ —Bucky… Bucky’s lived in the city nearly his whole life, give or take a few of those years when he didn’t seem to live anywhere. Especially last year, he lived in the beating heart of Brooklyn with—

 _Rogers_ , his head provides. _Steve._

He has to write this down.

He’s brought back to reality when he feels the wand—still miraculously in his hand, even provided the fall—start to shake violently in his grip, nearly pulling him around with the force it exerts on him. It takes two hands to wrestle it back towards his body and shove it in his backpack, zipping it up with a final stroke.

It thrashes around inside like an angry cat, and Bucky hisses, “Quit it.”

The wand is pacified for a second, then resumes its raging.

From his surroundings, he seems to be at the end of a long driveway. Like, really long. He’s standing on the side of a two-lane highway, in front of a small dirt road that’s nearly hidden by surrounding trees and vegetation. There’s an old mailbox on the other side of the driveway, with a few numbers with what Bucky assumes is the address to a house.

He’s… has he been here before? He vaguely recognizes the mailbox, but the area around him is so green and natural. It’s not a stretch to the imagination to think that perhaps it didn’t always look like this.

The place is unfamiliar, but Bucky isn’t sure that this place is just random. He told the wand to bring him where he needed to go—and it brought him here, to this driveway. Why? Why does he need to be here?

He thinks, for a moment, that maybe someone he knows lives here—someone who can give him the answers, fill the holes in his memories.

 _Rogers_ , his mind supplies.

Looking around, though, he can hardly imagine such a city boy living in a place like this. From what he can gather, he seems to be in the mountains, which would explain the unseasonable cold. Most of the trees happen to be evergreens, taller than houses, skinny as beanpoles, reaching upwards toward the sunlight. The forest is thick, and there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of hiking trails, but Bucky is sure that if he’s supposed to follow any path it’s going to be the driveway in front of him.

He takes a deep breath, unsure of himself but having no other immediate option presented to him. He’s going to go to the house at the end of this driveway.

He changes into his familiar form and begins to trot up the road, figuring that people will be more reluctant to attack him for trespassing on their property if he looks like a dog—well, humans will. Cunning folk will just resonate with him and then whip up their quickest banishing spell.

It also doesn’t hurt to look like a dog when his regular face is plastered all over the news channels and magazine covers.

It turns out that he’s right: the driveway is, in fact, very long. By his estimation, it’s nearly a quarter of a mile uphill and unpaved. The dirt road is lined by little, baby trees, just starting to grow, no more than two years old. Bucky stays on the road and out of the underbrush, not wanting to get pine needles or bug in his fur. That’s something that he doesn’t want to deal with right now, not when he’s already nervous.

Finally, he reaches the house, looking it up and down. It’s larger than the average house—if definitely has a rustic charm to it, with caramel-colored wood and dry-stone pillars. There’s a light on inside, and Bucky considers going to the door to knock, or maybe just turning around and running away, when the front door opens.

A girl walks out, and Bucky is struck by how familiar she looks. With her wavy brown hair cut in a bob, freckles sprinkling over her nose, Bucky can’t help but think that she looks very young—maybe seventeen, at most. She spots Bucky sitting there, and she smiles immediately at the sight of him, and starts coming closer.

“Hello,” she says, then smiles. “Where did you come from?”

He backs away from her initially, and she snatches her hand back, out of the air.

“Oh,” she says, a pitiful look passing over her face. “I won’t hurt you.”

Bucky sits back and watches her for a moment, and she seems to deem this as permission to come forward. She advances slowly, her hand raised for him to smell. He comes closer, looks at her warily, sniffs her hand once, and she spreads a hand over his hand, scratching his ears.

No one has touched him this gently in a year.

It’s this thought that keeps him firmly planted in place while she goes on patting and prodding at him. She smiles at him widely, and Bucky feels so goddamn at peace that he forgets for a moment that he’s supposed to be trying to figure out who she is. Eventually she kneels down and rubs around his neck, looking for a collar.

“Huh,” she says. “Where’s your owner?”

 _In prison in D.C._ , Bucky doesn’t say. Audibly, he huffs.

She frowns at the sound, and Bucky feels a spike of fear. He starts backing away, but her fingers have unconsciously grown tighter in his fur, and he’s not going to get away without losing a handful.

He wants to run. He wants to stay. But he holds still when she says, soft and hopeful as ever, “Bucky?”


	5. Seventeen / Daybreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow!! Thank you guys for the response to the last chapter! I was surprised that you guys liked it so much :))  
> So to clear up confusion, Bucky did not meet Wanda in the last chapter. Yes, he is in the mountains, but he and Steve aren't going to meet just yet (that happens VERY soon though). The explanation for that is going to be in this chapter!
> 
> Sorry for the tease in the last chapter. But I'm making it up to you guys! There's a longer than usual chapter up ahead :^) I didn't really want to break this up and I figured you guys deserve it after putting up with me not posting for like a month at a time each time.

_The DB!_ @dailybugle  
Eye-witness reports of a working wand rock New York! Visit thedb.com for more information. #DBnews

 _The Pulse_ @pulsenews  
Who are the Wolf Spiders, and what do they have to do with #ProjectInsight? More at thepulse.com! 

 _New York Bulletin_ @nybulletin  
Hydra agent at large: could he be the missing Wolf Spider mentioned in Alexander Pierce's #ProjectInsight confession? Visit the NYB blog for more.

+++

He’s so close to running away, he’s not entirely sure what makes him decide to stay.

In fact, his mind is almost completely made up—he’s going to tear away from her, take the loss of fur, and go somewhere in the mountains, somewhere private and secluded where he can regroup and reconsider.

So when he changes from his familiar form to his human form, it comes as a surprise to them both. He hasn’t been in his familiar form in so long—he never felt like he was allowed to, when he was under Hydra’s command, and he’d forgotten that he’d had this whole other part to him. It’s astounding. But he doesn’t have time to think about that. She takes a step back to allow him space, and then looks at him up and down with a scrutinizing eye.

“It’s you,” she says.

He opens his mouth, unsure what to say. Without his permission, he hears himself say, “Rebecca.”

And he knows immediately that the name fits. It’s her—his sister, Rebecca, looking so different from when he left her so long ago. God, how many years has it been? Four? Five?

“You grew up,” he tells her.

She opens her mouth, looking like she’s going to say something but then changes her mind, and instead settles instead on, “You look like shit.” But there are tears in her eyes. And, to his amazement, his as well.

She steps forward and gives him a proper hug, one that he returns after only a second of hesitation.

“You’re here,” she says.

Bucky nods jerkily. Yes, he’s here. The wand in his backpack has settled, seemingly sensing the gravity of the moment, deciding not to ruin it for him.

“I didn’t know if I’d see you again,” she says when she pulls away, and then ducks her head, crossing her arms over her chest. That’s one thing that they both inherited their parents, among many differences between them—they hate when other people see them cry.

After a moment of awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot, she looks up with a sniff and says, “Would you like to come inside?”

He nods again, shoving his hands further into his pockets. She leads him to the porch and lets him inside the house. As he’s toeing off his boots, he looks around the place. It’s pretty big, and something wiggles around in his brain like he’s trying to remember something but isn’t quite there. He’s been here before, he thinks. No, he’s _sure_. He remembers… the car was cold, the battery was dead or something. So he trudged up the mountain, dragging Rebecca because she was passed out from the cold, and he had panicked so hard that he had inadvertently changed into his familiar form. He dragged her by the hood of her puffy winter coat until he found a house.

Apparently, it was this one. He just doesn’t recognize it without the raging blizzard and near white-out conditions.

“Would you like something to eat?” Rebecca asks. She’s backing away towards a doorway—the kitchen, Bucky assumes.

“Uh, sure,” he says. He hasn’t eaten a proper meal in days; the mere mention of food has him salivating.

“What would you like?” she calls from the other room. Bucky starts to follow, looking around as he does. The place really is big. The ceilings are high and the windows on the southern end of the house let in a lot of beautiful natural light.

“Anything,” he says. God, he’s starving.

He thinks back to a few minutes ago—where did his groceries go? With a frown, he realizes that he didn’t have them when he fell on the ground, so they must have been lost between the moment he slashed through the air with the wand and the moment he landed here.

He enters the kitchen and looks at what she’s doing. She seems to be preparing some leftovers—spaghetti, it looks like. She pops it into the microwave and punches a few buttons.

“If you’re still hungry afterwards, then I can make something else, too.”

Bucky nods, looking around a little. There’s a picture of her standing between two adults on the fridge. They’re all smiling widely; Rebecca is wearing a formal pink dress and heavy makeup while her parents wear casual attire.

“Prom last year,” she tells him. Bucky nods.

“Did you have a date?” he asks.

She smiles and nods. “Yeah. He goes to my school.”

Bucky nods, feeling his Big Brother Instinct kick in. He asks, “Is he good to you?”

Rebecca rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Yeah,” he says. “And if he didn’t then I could kick his ass myself.”

Bucky chuckles and looks down. The microwave beeps, signalling the end of its cycle, and Rebecca takes it out for him and gets him a fork.

As Bucky eats, he studies the pictures on the refrigerator some more. There are some of people that he doesn’t know, but he recognizes the couple from Rebecca’s prom picture.

“Where are…?” Bucky asks.

“The parents?” she asks. She blinks and says, “I mean—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says. “You can call them your parents if you want, I’m not mad.”

She looks wary but says, “They’re in Colorado Springs for a conference. They’ll be back in a few days.”

“And they just left you here?”

She rolls her eyes. “If you think I’m going to evangelical hell to spend my spring break, fucking forget it.”

Bucky chuckles, though he doesn’t really get it. Eventually, when he finishes his spaghetti, he asks, “Hey, where are we?”

She looks at him and says, “Uh, closest town is Evergreen. Do you… not know?”

He shrugs and says, “It’s a long story.” He pokes the fork around the tupperware container, even though it’s empty. “And it’s not… great.”

She frowns and says, “We have plenty of time.”

+++

Bucky tells her everything. It takes a few hours; eventually they migrate from the kitchen to the living room. Rebecca turns on the TV for background noise, but she doesn’t watch it, just puts all her attention on Bucky.

He tells her how he dragged her from the car and up the mountainside, up to the door, where he collapsed from exhaustion and cold.

He tells her how he left the morning he woke up, because he couldn’t stay and ruin her life more. She deserved a stable home and a stable life even if he couldn’t give it to her.

He tells her about running from state to state, avoiding asshole witches, picking up odd jobs, moving when things got difficult.

He tells her about finally meeting a guy in a bar, moving in with him, because he could provide security that Bucky couldn’t find anywhere else.

He tells her about how his memory of the year before his capture is spotty as hell, but he tells her about his capture. His memory loss. His torture. The loss of his friends and the loss of his entire self.

He tells her about the fire, about his escape into the world.

He tells her about a half hour ago, when the wand ripped a hole in reality that he stepped right through into now.

She stares at him.

“I forgot the exact place you were,” he admits. “I told the wand to bring me where I needed to go and it took me here. I remembered we were in the mountains, but I couldn’t remember which state. Like, Wyoming or Colorado or Montana.”

Finally, she takes a deep breath and says, “You said there was nothing to actually do in Wyoming except get drunk and shoot bottle rockets so you decided you would come to Colorado because they had, like, more regulations on forced Bonds and anti-magic discrimination. You said it was like Montana but with less sheep and more people.”

Bucky nods and smiles a little. He remembers that now.

She tilts her head and goes on, “Which, I mean, you’re right that Wyoming’s boring, but Colorado isn’t much better.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re bored in this giant fucking house and in this state.”

“I can’t ski, Bucky!” she groans. “Ninety percent of the fun things to do in Colorado revolve around skiing or hiking and I hate _skiing_ and I hate _walking up mountains_. ”

“There’s plenty of shit to do in Denver,” Bucky says.

She points an accusing finger at him. “You know damn well that Denver is filled with yuppies and stoners.”

Bucky giggles— _giggles_ —because goddamn, he didn’t realize how much he missed his sister. And now he’s here, and she’s here, and they can finally talk and catch up and it’s almost dizzying to think that he’s been gone for so many years because when they start ribbing each other like this it’s like no time has passed at all.

He’s not sure if she believes him, because he knows how it sounds. But he’s glad to be talking with her, and she doesn’t seem to have a readily available explanation for any of his new scars peeking out under his shirt, or his greasy lank hair, or his metal arm.

When the moment her name clicked in his brain, it was like someone had flicked on the light switch in a room in his brain. Suddenly he can see, and he’s not bumbling around in the dark with the vague knowledge that something is there but not being able to see any of it.

+++

Bucky doesn’t know what he was expecting, but for some reason he’s surprised when it’s not perfect.

They spend a day like that; Bucky wakes up in the morning, and Rebecca doesn’t even complain when Bucky eats almost all of the cereal. They coexist peacefully: they watch TV together though Bucky doesn’t know what’s going on, Rebecca drives into town to get groceries and Bucky doesn’t even get that nervous being in a large house by himself. Well, he nearly paces a rut in the floor, but that’s to be expected.

But when he goes to bed that night in the guest room downstairs, pulling the blankets over him as tight as he can. The heat is on full blast and he’s still fucking cold. He tosses and turns; the bed is too fucking soft for him. Part of him wants to sleep on the floor, but the other part thinks that he’ll be fine, he just has to get used to it.

The other part of his mind wanders, wondering how long he’s going to stay here. Rebecca didn’t tell him to leave, but her parents are going to be back soon. What are they going to say when they see a scary, metal-armed man sleeping in their guest bedroom? What if they recognize him from the news?

It’s not until he changes into his familiar form and curls into a tight little circle—at nearly three o’clock in the morning—that he gets to sleep, drifting off when exhaustion finally pulls him under.

He wakes up at nine in the morning when a knock comes at his door. He jerks into awareness, no gradual build-up—popping out of his familiar form more than really changing out of it. The next second he’s on his feet and letting Rebecca into the room.

She bursts out laughing when she sees the state of his hair, nearly doubling over. She manages to stay upright and hand him the Pop-Tart that she’s brought him.

Bucky looks at the Pop-Tart—then at her—in confusion. She steers him towards a mirror, puts a brush in his hand, and leaves him to it.

When Bucky comes upstairs, freshly showered and hair brushed, he and Rebecca sit down at the table. She seems to be reading a book while she eats her cereal. Finally, he can’t take it anymore, and he just asks her.

“Are they good parents?” he asks.

She looks up from her book, slightly alarmed. But when she takes a second to read his expression, her gaze softens, a little smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I’m doing alright, Bucky,” she assures him. “They’ve been good to me. Better than I could have hoped for.”

Bucky nods, considering this. She looks at her hands, fiddling with the rings on her fingers.

“They wanted a daughter,” she mutters. “They had a kid, but she died three or four years before I got here. So I think they were happy to take me in.”

Then she looks at him, twiddling her thumbs. She lets her book close, frowns a little, looking slightly distressed. Bucky’s about to ask her what the matter is when she speaks.

“They would have taken you in, too, Bucky,” she says.

Ah.

He shakes his head. This is just reaffirming why he left. Sure, they would have taken him, but Rebecca was the answer to their prayers. She was the daughter they wanted. _Needed._

Besides, Bucky was kind of being sought out by witches at that time. It was like they could smell the pure familiar bloodline on him. Bucky tells her as such.

“There were people after me, Rebecca,” he says. “I didn’t want to bring that to them when they didn’t ask.”

“You’re making it out to be much worse than it was,” she says, crossing her arms. Now she’s miffed. “Yeah, there were some witches who were after you, but that’s not why you ran. You ran because you couldn’t stand to stay in that house any longer. You realize that they gave us an inheritance, right? We weren’t helpless. Dad even arranged for security for us.”

Bucky’s eyebrows pull together in annoyance and confusion. “You know how many witches came to my door the week after Dad died? It was a lot, Rebecca. I didn’t just leave because I was _sad_.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t even pretend like that’s not why you did it. I know you, Bucky.”

The thing about being close to someone means that they know all your ticks; they know all the soft spots where barbs will hurt most, they know all the insecurities and fears. It’s been years since he’s seen Rebecca, but the chinks in his armor all lie in the same places, and she has terribly good aim.

Bucky huffs, slamming his fist on the table in frustration. “You know me? That’s great. Why is it that everyone seems to know me but _me_?” he growls through clenched teeth.

Angry, Bucky pushes himself away from the table and storms out of the room.

Halfway to the guest room, Bucky realizes that he’s being ridiculous. It doesn’t stop him from shutting himself inside, though. He sits down hard on the bed and tries very hard to get a hold of himself.

It just—it just hurts, perhaps, to think that maybe he could have done things differently. Why is she making him doubt himself now? What will that do? What will it change?

Could he have stayed here, perhaps? Maybe. And done what? Go to college? Get a job? Like—like he wasn’t breaking? Like everything was going to be okay? Like his whole life wasn’t stolen away from him?

There isn’t even any use getting emotional about it now. He’d been on Hydra’s watch list since the day his father died. They either would have gotten him in Brooklyn, with Steve, or here, with Rebecca. He’s just lucky they didn’t get him sooner.

There’s a knock on the door. When he doesn’t answer, she opens it slightly and pokes her head in, looking wary and guilty.

“Bucky?” she says.

Bucky just grunts. “Hmm.”

She comes in fully, her arms crossed over her chest, looking slightly remorseful and mostly guilty. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Bucky looks up at her, then back to his hand. He runs his flesh thumb over the palm of his metal hand, watching the iron ripple like water.

“It’s fine,” he mutters. “It’s not like you’re wrong.”

She makes a noise, like a hum or a groan or both, and says, “Bucky, don’t. You had your reasons for doing what you did. Even if I didn’t like it, I have no right to take it away from you.”

Bucky hums, either in assent or dissent he’s not sure. She stands there for a moment and Bucky doesn’t offer for her to sit so she doesn’t. After an uncomfortable amount of time, she speaks.

“What do you want?” she asks.

He frowns at her. “What?” he asks.

She moves so that she’s in his line of sight and repeats, “What do you want? Like, what do you want to do now that you’re free?”

Bucky looks at her for a long time, then looks back to his arm. He remembers the spell—the curse, really—that gave it to him, how the liquid metal climbed up his arm, the way the alcohol smelled as it evaporated into the air. He remembers the way Pierce recoiled to touch him, the way Rumlow’s voice hit him, each syllable like a punch, when he cast the Siren’s Song.

“I want—” he starts, then stops himself. He thinks hard, then decides, yes, this is what he wants. He tries again, “I want to find that bastard. Make him pay.”

“Which one?” she asks, not even blinking an eye. “Pierce or Rumlow?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “Rumlow. Both.”

She nods. “Then I think you need to figure out a game plan.”

+++

They talk some more, but it’s stilted, weak. Bucky isn’t sure what’s changed. They have dinner together anyway. It’s late when he gets back to his room. Pulling the wand out of his backpack, he feels the tug of it, its natural pull away from him.

It does not like him. It wishes to be back with Steve. Bucky understands. He feels the same way.

He sets the wand aside. It moves, ever-so-slightly, towards the door of the room. By itself.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grouses. “Hold your damn horses.”

He had told Rebecca that he wants to find Rumlow. That wasn’t a lie; however, he thinks he’s going to have to do something else, first.

If this wand won’t work for him, he may just have to make one himself. Because there’s no way that he’s going to be wandering through this world without the protection of a wand. He may have to reverse-engineer it, but, whatever. He’ll figure it out.

He pulls out his notebook and then picks up the wand again, studies it close, runs his fingers over the wood and traces the sigils. He documents which sigils are there, jotting them into his notebook.

He’ll need a wooden surface, and these exact sigils, he assumes, to activate a new wand. He’s handy with a knife, but he’s not laser-precise. The sigils on this thing are tiny, and he’s going to need more space to first draw the sigils and then to carve them. That means that the thing he’s carving it on will have to be pretty big, much bigger than this thing, but still be small enough to fit in his hand.

He jots down ideas— _big branch_. He frowns and immediately crosses that one out.

An umbrella, maybe. Bucky is thinking that perhaps it should be wooden, since this wand seems to be wood. Perhaps he could paint the sigils on the canopy. Or would that not work, if the entire thing isn’t made of wood? He marks that one _maybe._

He writes down a few more things—wooden rod, another wishbone-shaped branch if he can find one, other things. Then he writes down what he knows that this wand specifically has.

+++ 

> ENTRY #3

_Ideas (so far):_

  * ~~_Big branch_~~


  * _Umbrella (maybe)_


  * _????_


  * _Another wishbone-shaped thing of some sort?_


  * _2x4_


  * _Guitar_



 

_Attributes of the existing wand:_

  * _Wishbone-shaped / two prongs_


  * _Sigils_


  * _Made of wood_


  * _Discernible handle and end_


  * _Hates me_



+++

In the end, he leaves a note. He knows she deserves more than that, but with the entire world on the lookout for him, he doesn’t know what he would do if people found him here. He doesn’t want Rebecca or her family to be charged for harboring a criminal.

He makes it short and sweet. Says he’s sorry. That he’ll call her when this is all over. That he’s going to be okay and that he hopes that she gets good grades in school. Then he opens his window and steals into the night.

Sometimes, he thinks that he ought to have been a cat rather than a dog. It would make more sense, he thinks, as he climbs down the drain pipe, skipping over to the rocky pillars and holding on with his finger tips. It would also make this job so much easier if he could guarantee that he would land on his feet.

With a final jump down, he pulls his backpack closer over his shoulders, making sure the buckle is clipped. In his head, he goes over the list one more time: food, clothes, water, wand.

He left the Hydra base without any weapons, except for the wand. He’s not sure of the extent of its power, though, but it doesn’t matter if it won’t adhere to his command. It healed Rogers, yes—but what could he do if he had a wand that would listen to him? Could he find Rogers more easily? Could he build himself shelter? Could he completely disappear?

As he passes by the house, about to disappear into the woods, he sees something: a baseball bat, leaning against the wall next to a big, metal trash can. Since it’s leaning against the wall next to the trash can, he assumes that it was meant to be taken out along with the trash, and is therefore unwanted. Looking around, he approaches the bat, and studies it.

The thing is in pretty good shape—it’s got a few dings in it, sure, but is otherwise unharmed. The wood is mostly smooth, there are no cracks or chips in the wood. And the harder he thinks about it, the more he’s sure it will work.

When he thinks about it, it’s perfect. The end provides enough room for him to hand-carve the sigils, there’s a discernible handle for him to use it, and it’s made of wood. It also won’t be too suspicious to carry around a baseball bat in public. Well, it’ll be a little weird, but he’s sure that people will mostly write him off, which they wouldn’t do if he was carrying a 2x4 or wooden parasol.

He hopes that the two-prong design of the other wand isn’t a deciding factor in whether or not the wand will work, because he’d be pretty goddamn sad if that were the case. However, he’s sure that if that’s not the case, he’s confident he can get the wand working. Content, he tucks the baseball bat under his arm and heads into the night.

He thinks about what he does know, which isn’t exactly the kind of thing that he’d like to remember—Hydra projects, experiments, locations of bases, that kind of thing.

Maybe knowing those kinds of things aren’t all that bad.

Reaching for his notebook, he starts to write down everything he knows. The location of every Hydra base that he knows of, the descriptions of the victims that he has knowledge of, even if he doesn’t know their names.

But these people—he does know where they are, and he can possibly be of some help. The police will take forever to get to the bases if they just look for them by themselves, and by then they’ll be abandoned. The prisoners in the bases might not be set free—they’ll be shuffled around, hidden away, simple cards in a magician’s trick.

Well, he’s not letting that happen. He may not know much, but goddamn, he’s going to do something. And he knows just who to ask.

+++

_They’re in the basement of the brownstone, all equipment moved aside. Steve told him that they’d need all the space they could, and Bucky wasn’t one to question orders._

_Steve is on his hands and knees, drawing a sigil. Bucky asked him what the point of learning magic was if Steve wasn’t going to let him do it, to which Steve shushed him and kept working._

_When he seems to be done, Steve stood, tossing the chalk off to the side._

_“Okay,” he says. “First lesson.”_

_The sigil lights up with his touch, flowers sprouting from the floorboards. A sunflower starts growing, tall and heavy, bowing in Bucky’s direction with the weight of its yellow head. Bucky laughs, delighted, as flowers bud and bloom between his toes._

_“What did I say you needed to practice magic?” Steve asks._

_“Ability and intent,” Bucky answers._

_“Right,” Steve says. “And what does that mean?”_

_“I—” Bucky starts to say, and then gets distracted by a vine climbing his pant leg. He wrestles it off while Steve goes to answer for him._

_“It means,” he says, “if your heart isn’t into the spell, it won’t work.” He leans down and picks a flower—a daffodil, it looks like. “And if you’re aiming to disprove yourself, or to prove others that magic isn’t real, then it just turns into a self-fulfilling prophecy.”_

_He hands the flower to Bucky, who takes it and smells deeply. Steve smiles at him._

_“You know what else that means?”_

_“What?” Bucky asks him._

_“It means that the more someone wants the spell to be real, the stronger it will be,” he says, voice stern and serious. Bucky listens intently; even the flowers seem to gather close. “That may mean trouble for you if someone is trying to hurt you. So you have to want to protect yourself if you’re going to use magic to do so.”_

_Bucky nods, dropping his hand down to his side, daffodil still in hand. “I understand.”_

_Steve smiles and says, “You want to try this time?”_

+++

He takes the wand out of his backpack. It has a big of a pull, and Bucky finally understands.

“Take me to him,” he tells the wand.

The wand alights, and then begins to pull, almost saying, _I thought you’d never ask._


	6. The Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kay i know in the comics that America speaks some Spanish but I, a Real Live Hispanic, has found that it's more common for hispanic kids to not really speak ANY spanish than it is for hispanic kids to be fluent in it. so im not going to try to butcher any spanish to make her more like the comic. also, im tired of people just giving her key words to say, like "chico" or "hombre." no one talks like that lol

######  **STEVE**

For the next few days, progress is made at a fantastic rate.

Once Wanda has tapped into her powers, it’s like they’re bursting out of her. She catches falling things with a flick of her hand, she manipulates objects with just a poke and a prod. She doesn’t even have to be touching it.

Not all of it is great, though. Wanda gets frustrated easily when she expects things out of herself and fails—on one particularly bad occasion, she yelled in anger and ended up shattering all the glasses on the dining table with just the sheer force of her frustration.

But other than that, Steve sees the potential in the other Seers, as well. Kate has terribly accurate aim. She doesn’t have to see her target. Steve isn’t sure how she does it, but he’s not going to question. And America is strong—like, really strong. Like, fantastically strong. Like, can-probably-best-Steve-in-an-arm-wrestling-contest kind of strong.

And Peter is—Peter.

They don’t know about Peter yet.

Steve gives them tests. Things to assess their abilities; their accuracy, their agility, their strength. So far, Peter isn’t on either extreme of the spectrum—he’s not overwhelmingly strong or concerningly weak, he’s not agile as a fox or slow as a turtle. He’s pretty normal.

While Steve doesn’t see a problem with this—Peter has had enough shit to deal with in the past few months—Steve knows that he feels a little left out. A little…

“Useless,” Peter says. “That’s the word you’re looking for, right?”

“No,” Steve says. “Because you’re _not useless._ ”

They’re sitting in the living room, Peter plopped down on the sofa with his legs over the arm of the couch. Steve is sitting in what he has started to think of as _his spot_ —a big, squashy blue armchair with an ottoman that does not match in color nor texture.

Peter huffs and puts his hands in his lap, palms up. “What am I good for?”

“You don’t need to be _good_ for anything, Peter,” Steve says. “You’re their friend. They loved you before they found their powers and they’ll love you afterwards. Besides, you’re the only Seer I know that was a natural-born familiar. Why do you need powers on top of that?”

“Because!” he exclaims, trying to throw his arms out. The back of the couch blocks one hand, the other dangles over the side of the sofa. Instead, he crosses them hard over his chest, pouting.

“Because why?” Steve asks, gently.

“Because…” He looks angry and frustrated, and Steve wants to calm him but he’s not sure how. “Because Hydra took everything from me, and what’s the point of me having gone through that if I can’t help people out when I get to the other side of it, huh? And me having a slightly better sense of smell and not being able to settle on a familiar form isn’t going to help anyone.”

Steve’s heart kinda breaks at that.

“Hey,” Steve says gently. “There are other ways to help.”

“Like what?” he says moodily, crossing his arms over his chest _forcibly_.

He would laugh at Peter’s petulance if the situation wasn’t so serious right now. “You can be there for people. You can help them talk and open up. You can show support. There’s lots of things you can do. Sometimes you don’t have to be out there, physically fighting the danger. If we all did that, who would be there to help in the aftermath?”

His arms loosen a little where they’re crossed over his chest. He frowns a little, and with a small voice, says, “You’re right. I guess.”

Steve pats his arm reassuringly. He’s quiet for a moment, afraid to push, but eventually asks, “Is the familiar thing bothering you that much?”

Peter frowns, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “A little,” he admits.

He’s not sure if he should bring this up, considering the nature of… everything. But he wants to help in a more tangible manner, and he also wants to get Peter’s mind off of the whole “gifted” thing, so he does his best to fill up the empty silence.

“I helped… my friend,” Steve says. “He had trouble changing into his familiar form. He’d repressed it for years. Maybe I can help you, too.”

Peter smirks. “Your friend, huh? This the same friend you almost died for, like, a month ago?”

Steve blushes hard, ducking his head on reflex. “Well, I mean—”

They don’t know the whole story. None of them, except for Wanda, who perhaps knows Bucky’s story a little better, considering she was there for part of it. But Wanda would never share Steve’s business without his explicit permission, so it doesn’t surprise him when Peter smiles and presses a little more.

“What was his name?” he asks.

Steve gives a small smile to the hands in his lap. “Bucky,” he says. “His name is Bucky.”

“What happened to him?” Peter asks.

Straightening up, Steve says, “Why do you ask?”

Peter shrugs. “Because you sounded close. I figure you’d, you know, try to keep in touch with him. Unless—” He abruptly cuts himself off, as if realizing where his line of thought is leading him. “I mean,” he starts, and then stops again.

“He’s alive,” Steve says, relieving Peter of his awkwardness. The kid relaxes a little, out of the hot seat. “I just—don’t know where he is.”

Peter nods in thoughtful silence. “What happened?” he asks again, and it’s really stupid that Steve is considering opening up to this _kid_ , who’s, like, _sixteen_.

… Fuck it.

“Hydra took him,” he answers. “And… brainwashed him. He didn’t remember me when I went to… free you.”

That day was one of the hardest Steve’s ever faced—if not for almost dying, for seeing Bucky there, so close but unable to reach him. Bucky was the love of his life. _Is_ the love of his life. But he walked out of there that day, to do God-knows-what. If Bucky needs space, Steve will give it freely. If he doesn’t want to be with Steve, then he’ll have to be okay with that. If Bucky needs to never see Steve again, then… he’ll give him that, too.

_God_ , he thinks. Bucky lived with him for six months, give or take, but he’s been gone for over a _year_.

“What?” Peter asks, breaking him out of his reverie. “You’re thinking.”

“Yeah,” Steve confirms.

“About Bucky?”

“No. Well, a little bit,” he admits. He looks down. “He’s been gone longer than he was ever with me… But I still…” He trails off and sighs. “I was thinking about how Hydra just changed everything. Everything is so… different.”

“Yeah,” Peter huffs. “I kinda have some experience with that.”

Steve looks over at the kid, his slumped shoulders, the downturn to his mouth. Steve leans forward again, puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Peter,” Steve says. “You’re free of them now, aren’t you?”

Peter nods. “I guess.”

“They can’t touch you, Pete. You won. And I’m not going to let them get you, ever again. Alright?”

“You promise?”

Steve hates making promises.

“I promise.”

+++

Their senses are good, all of them. He’s not sure what he should do with them, really—sometimes, he thinks that they’re beyond his teaching. They all seem to have a good grasp on their own bodily kinetics. So good, in fact, that Kate and America have taken to working out together. They always ask Steve or Wanda to guide them, tell them what’s going on and trusting them to steer them in the right direction.

There’s a gym in the basement. They lift weights. They stretch. They jump rope. Wanda and Kate guide them to the right weights, spot them, help them when they inevitably trip over something that the other forgot to put away correctly. And after so many sessions, Steve starts to notice their dynamic, the way they act around each other.

America has this… _look_ on her face, when Kate talks to her. Steve recognizes it as fondness, the way she blushes a little when Kate gives her shoulder a squeeze and heads upstairs to shower and change. America stays back, saying that she’s not finished yet, and making her way over to the punching bag.

“Hold the bag for me, will you?” America requests.

Steve does. While he would usually have qualms about her pushing herself so hard in one day, Steve kind of understands. They’ve been cooped up here for a while with not much to do every day besides exercise or lay around. So he complies, holding tight to the bag while America attacks it. It’s not reinforced, and the thing is practically falling apart. The girl is _strong._ After about fifteen minutes, between punches and struggling to keep the bag still, Steve starts to talk.

“So,” he says, in a break between America’s rapid-fire punches. “Kate, huh?”

America tenses, her next few punches growing clumsy. “What about her?” she asks, her voice edging on hostile.

Steve huffs a laugh, saying, “Whoa, whoa, I’m not making fun of you. Just… you guys seem really close.”

“We’re just friends,” America insists. “That’s all, Steve.” She punches the bag harder this time around, making Steve lose his footing a little.

“Hey,” Steve says. He steps away from the bag, laying a hand on America’s arm. “That’s enough for today. You pushed yourself hard.”

She goes easily, none of her commonplace stubbornness to combat him, which tells Steve that she really is tired. He frowns and says, “What’s bothering you, America? The thing with Kate?”

She waddles over to the bench and sits down hard, her hand reaching around for her water bottle. She finds it, takes a large gulp. She takes a moment to swallow before saying, “The last thing I need right now is a relationship.”

“Who said anything about that?” Steve says. He goes over to the bench to sit a few feet away.

“You _insinuated—_ ”

“Hey,” Steve says. “Hey, I was just teasing. I wasn’t trying to make you mad.”

She downs another large gulp of water while Steve sits there, worry growing by the second. He kind of regrets bringing up Kate, because it seems to be a much more sensitive subject than he realized, and he doesn’t want America mad at him.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

She takes another deep gulp of her water, pushing her wild hair behind her ears. She sighs and drops her head down low.

“You wanna know how they got me?” she asks after a moment.

Steve tenses up. America is usually teasing, lighthearted, sarcastic. He’s never heard her voice so serious. It unsettles him. “Who?”

“Hydra.”

His stomach flips. “America…”

She huffs, looking annoyed. “I’m offering,” she insists.

Steve doesn’t like the idea, but it would feel wrong to refuse this when she’s offering a piece of her past to him. He doesn’t want to break her trust.

“Okay,” he agrees, warily.

She runs a hand through her curly hair and sighs. She doesn’t turn to face him. “I wasn’t really popular at school. Not many kids wanted to be friends with the blind girl,” she starts.

Steve nods, thinking about it. Not many people wanted to be friends with him, the skinny runt, either. Teenagers are weird. “Okay,” he says again, prompting her to continue.

She clasps her hands together and rests her elbows on her knees, slumping forward, and says, “This guy came up to me while I was eating lunch one day. He was so nice. He asked me about myself. We became friends. Or, at least I thought we were friends.” She fiddles with the cap of her water bottle before continuing. “He asked me if I wanted to hang out one night. Asked if I wanted to go out to dinner or something.” She shrugs. “I said yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

Steve feels a stab of fear. “Did he—”

“No,” she says quickly. “Nothing like that.”

Steve feels the knot in his chest loosen just a fraction. He doesn’t know what to say, so he remains silent until she decides to continue.

She sits up a little, pushing her elbows off her knees. “He picked me up in his car. My mom told me to keep my phone on me and to be careful. Reminded me when curfew was.” She opens the water bottle and takes a few quick drinks, and Steve waits for her to get her bearings, saying nothing.

When she’s ready, she continues, “I don’t know what made me realize something was wrong. But we were driving for such a long time, and every time I asked him where we were going and he said he wanted it to be a surprise. He said that it was fine, that he knew I’d like it when we got there.” She takes a deep breath. “After awhile, I got upset. He was starting to get defensive, which scared me. I told him that he needed to tell me where we were going _right now_. I said, I’m going to climb out at the next stoplight if you don’t tell me right now.” Her eyebrows pull in for a second. “He knocked me out cold. I never knew someone could hit that hard.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say; he just stares at her while she clenches and unclenches her hands around the bottle, making the water slosh noisily inside.

“When I woke up, I was in that lab. I didn’t know where I was. I just remember…” She trails off. “Alexander Pierce’s voice. I remember thinking how familiar it sounded.” She drops her head. “So I guess you could say I have trust issues,” she finishes.

“America…” he says.

The way she describes her story makes him think of the day the Hydra agents had burst into his home, ringing with gunfire and doors broken off hinges. He hadn’t thought for a moment that Hydra wouldn’t make a habit of the showy kidnapping schemes, like they had done with Bucky—they were sneakier, more covert, in all their other crimes, it seemed like. The Hydra agent that took America didn’t attack head-on, didn’t fly into her home in a fury of fire. He only used violence when he absolutely had to. And that terrifies Steve. The idea that he stuck around long enough to gain her trust. Every move was planned and calculated.

America didn’t just lose her normal, day-to-day existence, she lost her trust. She wasn’t just kidnapped, she was betrayed. The way she was taken was less violent, less forceful than the way Bucky was taken, but it was just as brutal.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Steve says eventually. He tries to choose every word carefully, afraid of saying something insensitive after what America’s just told him. “But… you shouldn’t hold yourself back from… a relationship—whether it’s just a friendship or whatever—with Kate, just because of that guy. He was a dickhead. Kate wouldn’t treat you like that.”

America grits her teeth. “I know that. I know that, Rogers, you don’t think I—don’t think I want to?” she practically growls. Her brow crumples and she looks crushed, really. On autopilot, Steve scoots closer and wraps a reassuring arm around her shoulders, squeezing her into a hug.

America doesn’t cry—it just isn’t the way she expresses her grief. But she does bury her head into Steve’s shoulder, breathing fast and agitated.

“It’s just… the second I get close to her, I feel… weird. Every time I try, I just feel like I want to run. Or that she’ll… leave. I don’t know. I’m not making sense.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says.

They sit there like that for nearly fifteen minutes.

+++

It’s nearing nine o’clock; Steve is settled in his chair in the living room, feet up on the ottoman. He’s going through his phone, trying to find updated information on the Project Insight case, but not seeing anything that he hasn’t already read. Most articles seem to be about the upcoming trials, and Steve’s not sure how he feels about that. He’s not sure how he hasn’t been found yet—he’s sure that he’s on security cameras somewhere, he’s sure he was on Hydra’s radar… but so far, nothing.

He’s so involved in himself that he jumps when America comes into the room and says, “Ay, Rogers.”

Steve fumbles with his phone and shuts the screen off. “What?” he asks, feeling hassled.

“Read to me,” she demands.

Steve looks at her. She stands with her hands on her hips, and for a moment Steve is reminded of Natasha—America’s personality reminds him greatly of her, with her random demands and strange, quiet demeanor most other times. Steve can’t deny that he’s completely charmed by this.

Their talk earlier in the day seemed to be cathartic for her—she went to her room to be alone for awhile, and only came back down for dinner, but she seems to be feeling better now. Steve doubts she’s about to be honest with herself—much less Kate—right now, but he thinks that he’s at least taken some of the burden from her shoulders right now. She knows she can talk to him, whenever.

“Why?” Steve asks.

“Because I said so,” she says. Steve waits to hear the excuse, but none comes—Tony equipped the kids with StarkPhones that they can navigate mostly by voice command. Steve has seen them listening to music and podcasts, and he’s sure Tony has given them enough money to buy all the audiobooks they could possibly want. Hell, he’s sure that he’s stocked the bookshelves with Braille books as well, but Steve suspects that they really don’t care about listening to the story, they just want Steve to be the one telling it to them.

“What story?”

“Whatever book you have,” she says, with a flippant wave of her hand.

Steve huffs and smiles. He stuffs his phone in his pocket and goes to stand. “Fine. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

He makes his way to his room up a floor, where he looks around his shelves and his meager book supply. Without thinking, he grabs _The Little Prince_ , the first book he sees, and brings it back downstairs.

When he makes it back into the living room, he finds all the Seers together, not just America.

“Really?” he asks. America just sits there on the couch, looking innocent. Steve knows better.

He crosses over and takes his seat. He opens the book, strangely nervous, and reads the title and author. He takes a deep breath and begins: “‘Once when I was six I saw a magnificent picture in a book about the jungle…’”

Peter lays on the floor, stretched out with his arms behind his head, eyes closed. Kate and America are sitting on the couch, Kate’s legs on the seat while America’s feet remain squarely on the floor. Wanda sits on the ottoman, one leg crossed over the other, with her hands resting on her knee like she’s posing for a painting rather than sitting to listen to Steve read a children’s book.

Steve describes the pictures to the best of his abilities, telling them the color and the shape of the drawings, what they entail. The kids all listen, and Wanda sits nearby so she can take a look at the pictures when Steve gets to one. As he reads longer, he gets more confident, stumbling over his words much less. Reading aloud was never his strong point, but as he flips the pages, he finds himself using silly, exaggerated voices that make them all laugh and tease him.

Kate repositions herself on the couch a little, feels around and finds America, and then leans her head against America’s shoulder. America twitches a little, unsure of this, but then relaxes, allowing Kate to rest. Steve grins when he notices, but doesn’t comment.

While book is relatively short, they’ve been reading for about an hour when they’re interrupted by a noise. The Seers all perk up, and Steve stops in the middle of a sentence about a king whose ermine robes take up most of his small planet.

They all listen closely, the abrupt silence making Steve’s skin prickle. The kids seem to be on edge as well. Kate has taken her head off of America’s shoulder, who is sitting forward now, ready to stand. But when the sound doesn’t come again, Peter huffs nervously. He has sat up, his palms spread behind him to support his weight.

“That was funny,” he says, a hysterical little laugh escaping him. “Because that almost sounded like—”

But Peter is cut off when the sound comes again, unmistakeable this time.

Someone is knocking on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall...


	7. A Light in the Attic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late posting of this chapter! i decided to go a completely different route so i rewrote the entire thing. i hope you like it :))

It should be impossible.

The house is hidden far enough into the mountains that Steve hasn’t put a cloaking spell on it—why should he? Who is going to come here other than Tony, by helicopter? The only way in besides that would be on foot, and the nearest road is more than twenty miles away. There are no hiking trails, no rivers to follow, no human life for literal miles. The place is secluded, away from the public eye. That’s why Steve put his guard down.

He thought they were safe.

Steve looks at them and says in a low voice, “Be ready to fight. Okay?”

And then it comes again, definitely not imagined, definitely real. A knock; a soft  _tap tap tap_. When he looks at the wary expressions on the faces of the Seers, he knows they heard it as well.

Someone is at the door.

Wanda nods gravely, putting her hands out in front of her, ready to fight. Peter looks determined, stepping into a defensive position. Kate and America stand close to each other, America’s fingers curling into fists while Kate listens intently, angling her ear towards the doorway.

The knock comes again, a third, maybe fourth time. Whoever they are, they aren’t going away. He creeps closer, poised for action, ready to take the defensive. He can stall long enough that maybe the Seers can get away.

Half of Steve wonders why, if they  _are_ Hydra, or anyone else trying to do them ill-intent, why they don’t just barge in and take them by surprise.

But he doesn’t have time to consider this. In one swift movement, he opens the door.

The cold air hits him first—it must be below freezing out there, really, and the wind chill just makes it worse—and his hands are in fists, his teeth are clenched tight, ready to demand how they got here, who sent them. But when he sees who it is, his knees nearly give out.

“Bucky?” Steve breathes.

It’s April in the Rocky Mountains—the snow cold and heavy like a wet blanket. The wind is rolling through the trees like an avalanche, branches trembling and the air biting; Steve’s skin prickles just from where his hand rests on the door. The tree trunks bend and creak like old stairs, and Bucky’s standing outside and breathing hard like he  _walked_ all the way up here.

He looks, above all else, tired. There’s a fair amount of scruff on his face, his eyes have bags underneath them, his clothes are dirty as hell, and he seems to be carrying a baseball bat for some reason, but Steve doesn’t even question it because, goddamn, he’s  _here_.

Before Steve can ask him what’s going on, how he got here, if he even remembers Steve, Bucky takes a step forward and his knees buckle. Steve jerks into action, catching him in just the nick of time.

“Hey!” Steve exclaims in surprise, and then lowers his voice, concerned. “Buck, hey.”

Looking at the weather outside, Steve gets a wave of dread. God, Bucky—he must be fucking  _exhausted_ , from walking in that. And cold.

Bucky’s breathing and his pulse is fine, but he really just seems exhausted. And—well, he was walking around in the cold for who knows how long; his lips are blue, his face is pale. Steve is afraid that he might have hypothermia.

“Fuck,” Steve swears. “Shit, fuck.”

Thinking on his feet, Steve decides that he needs to get him help— _fast_ —but he can’t do everything at once. “Okay,” he says, injecting authority into his voice. He straightens up with Bucky in his arms. “Wanda, come here and help me carry him. Peter, get the first aid kit and meet us upstairs.”

“What’s going on?” Peter asks even as he goes to do what Steve’s asked. “Who’s—you said, ‘Bucky.’ Right?”

“Everything’s fine,” Steve assures quickly. “Just get the first aid kit. It’s in the kitchen.”

Peter seems apprehensive, but he does as Steve says. Wanda rushes over to help, supporting Bucky’s other side. Steve directs them to the stairs, and the two of them haul him to the empty bedroom together. Steve is strong, yeah, but Bucky isn’t exactly  _light_ , and he’s dead weight in their arms right now—he’s fucking heavy. Steve doesn’t know what to do besides drag him up the stairs, shuffling sideways, to bring him to the empty bedroom next to Steve’s. It’s the last free room besides the storage room in the basement, which is unfinished and cold, and Steve is definitely  _not_  bringing Bucky there in his condition.

They finally reach the bedroom. It’s a little barren, with sparsely-filled bookshelves and bland, modern furniture. It reminds Steve of his brownstone in Brooklyn before Bucky moved in, with its tasteless, standard furnishings. Back when all his important, personal items were locked into a trunk where no one could see them.

Steve and Wanda dump Bucky on the bed, a little ungracefully. Bucky seems to be awake, but Steve would only know this by the way he gives a little  _oof_  when he is deposited on the mattress.

“Hey,” Steve says. “You—what’s wrong, Buck? What hurts?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, and Steve doesn’t know what to do but look around to try to find the problem.

Steve grits his teeth when he sees Bucky’s flesh hand and the cartilage of his ear. His fingers have frostnip and little areas of superficial frostbite—nothing that can’t be healed by Steve’s potions, really. But his ear is looking a little worse—angry red and turning purple.

Bucky is awake—barely—when Peter arrives with the first aid kit. Steve has a potion that Bucky can drink. He doesn’t know how far Bucky’s injuries extend, but he has one cure-all for physical ailments. It won’t cure really major stuff, but it should handle the beginnings of his hypothermia and the frostbite. It’ll knock Bucky out for a good few hours while the magic works itself through his body, but that’s fine. He just needs to get Bucky to drink it.

In the end, they prop Bucky up against the headboard, dump a fuckton of blankets onto his body, and spoon-feed him the potion. Wanda tips his head back and makes sure he doesn’t choke. When they’re finished, Steve looks at Bucky intently, as if everything will be solved right before his eyes. The potion bottle is warm in his hand and getting warmer, exuding its own heat.

Peter stands in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. “Do you—need anything?”

Steve stands with a sigh, pushing himself up from the chair next to the bed. “I don’t think so.”

“So, do I get to know what’s going on, then?” he asks.

Steve smiles huffs a small chuckle. “Yeah, come on.”

Steve and Peter walk to Peter’s bedroom, Peter holding onto Steve’s elbow the way there. They pause in front of the doorway, Steve unsure what to say. But thankfully Peter speaks up first.

“Is… is Bucky here?” Peter asks.

Steve takes a deep breath and says, “Yes. Is that… going to be…” He stops when he sees Peter’s mouth twist with humor.

“We’re just a home for Hydra rejects, huh?” he jokes.

Steve chuckles. “I guess you could say that.”

Peter still stands there, though, and Steve gets the idea that perhaps he’s a little more concerned than he’s letting on. Steve understands—he’s not sure how Bucky played into the Seers’ keeping in the Hydra base, but he sure as hell tried to stop them from leaving.

“Did he… he didn’t… hurt you guys, did he?”

“What? Oh,” Peter says. He shakes himself a little, like he’s trying to get his head back in the present. “No, nothing like that. We had the same handlers as him. Rumlow, I think.”

Steve considers this, and then tells him, “I don’t know how he found us. And… I don’t know how much he remembers, if he remembers anything. But I’m going to assume that since he knocked, he wanted us to know he was here. I don’t think Hydra is controlling him anymore.”

Peter worries at his bottom lip. “Okay,” he says. “I—I don’t know why I was so freaked out, it’s—it’s not like he ever did anything to hurt us. And you’ve told—told us how good of a guy he was, I just—”

“Hey,” Steve says. “You’re fine. It’s all fine, okay, you don’t have to justify yourself to me.” He pats Peter’s shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting way. “Go get some rest. Or tell America and Kate what the deal is. I know you’re probably dying to.”

Peter laughs at that and says, “Yeah, whatever. Like they weren’t already eavesdropping.”

“I resent that,” a muffled voice says from behind Kate and America’s door.

Steve gives a confused, surprised laugh at that, nearly startling Peter in the process. Steve just can’t help it—he’s so goddamn stressed right now and somehow these kids still manage to— _charm_ him. It’s unreal.

“Night, Pete,” Steve says, giving him another pat on the shoulder. Then he calls to the closed door of America and Kate’s room. “Night, America and Kate!”

“Night, Steve!” they call back at him.

Peter is giggling helplessly, but manages a, “Goodnight.”

Wanda is in the bedroom when he gets there, reading a book. She looks up when she hears Steve enter, dog-earring the page and closing it. She must have gotten the book off of one of the shelves in the corner.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” Steve echoes. “Anything happen?”

She shrugs. “It’s hard to tell,” she says. “I don’t want to look inside his head without his permission.” She looks up at Steve. “They made me do it the last time I saw him. I saw his entire past in just a second. I… I always had that power. To see someone’s past, even just a little glimpse. But Hydra magnified it by a thousand.” She looks down, staring at the book in her hands.

“You were there,” she says. “He had a huge crush on you. I tried to get him to buy some moonstone.”

Steve smiles. “Is that why he had that? I always wondered what he was planning on using that for.”

She smiles back. “People who buy moonstone only ever use it for one thing. They’ll tell you it’s for water magic, but…”

Steve nods in understanding. It’s well known in the witch community that moonstone is the key ingredient in most love spells. Someone who has moonstone usually only has it for that reason, though they’ll tell you it’s for water magic. Yeah, right.

She sighs, setting the book on the arm of the chair. “I think I’m going to turn in for the night,” she tells him. She gets up slowly, tiredly. Steve steps back to let her pass, “G’night, Steve.”

“Night, Wanda,” he replies.

He stands there for a moment, trying to decide whether he should go to his room to sleep or not. Bucky probably won’t wake up anytime soon but—would he really want to wake up alone?

Steve considers the likelihood that Bucky will wake up in Hydra-Assassin-Kill Mode, and then sits down in the chair that Wanda vacated and grabs the book she left, opening it to the first page.

+++

He’s not sure when he falls asleep, but when he wakes up, it’s gradual. He dips back into consciousness with a slow easiness, first noticing through his nearly-closed eyes that he left the light on and secondly noticing that his head is drooping at an uncomfortable angle.

He straightens up, rolls his neck with a satisfying  _pop_ , and stretches. When he opens his eyes completely, he notices Bucky—sitting up.

Steve stiffens, ramrod straight, with a sharp inhale, rubbing his eyes. “Buck?”

Bucky doesn’t speak, just looks up at him, watching carefully.

“Are you—?” Steve straightens up more, fully awake now. “You good? You need some water?” Steve gestures to the water glass by Bucky’s bed, which seems to be empty. Bucky nods, and Steve stands and takes it. As he walks to the bathroom to refill it, he feels strange, like he’s out of his own head for some reason. Like he’s seeing his body do things while his consciousness sits in the back of his mind.

He refills the glass in the bathroom upstairs and brings it back to Bucky, who’s migrated from the head of his bed to the end. This position is nearer to the door, like he’s ready to bolt at any given moment. Bucky takes the glass and sips it slowly, and Steve goes and sits in the chair across from him.

He doesn’t know what to say. Half of him can’t believe that he’s back, and it’s so strange because he spent so much time worrying about Bucky, the moment he finally stops worry is the second he shows up. There’s so much he wants to ask— _how are you, where have you been, what happened with Hydra?_  In the end, he settles on, “Are you hurt? I—I gave you a potion to heal most of the other stuff. I didn’t know what was happening, and you weren’t awake enough to answer, so I—yeah. But it might not have healed everything, so I just want to be sure…”

Steve stops when he realizes he’s rambling, letting himself trail off.

Bucky looks up at Steve and opens his mouth a little, seeming to want to answer, but only grunts in reply. He lifts his left pant leg, showing a large piece of cloth wrapped around his leg. He takes it off to reveal a line stitches that he must have given himself—the thread seems to be dental floss, the stitching itself jagged and uneven.

“Jesus,” Steve breathes. “What happened?”

Bucky scowls at the stiches. The cut underneath seems to be healed from the potion, but he’s clearly not happy about it. For a second, Steve isn't sure he's going to answer, and he's about to apologize and tell Bucky not to worry about it when Bucky answers.

“Slipped on a steep incline, cut my leg on a broken branch. Cut really deep. Got infected, I think.” He looks up. Steve is amazed at the quick lowness of his speech. “Asked the wand to heal me, but it—I don’t know, maybe the cut was too deep. It gave me a thing of floss and a needle.” He huffs, sounding annoyed.

Steve stares at him in surprise, concern, and—well, horror. For one—the wand? Damn. Steve is surprised that Bucky managed to use it so well in such a short amount of time. Steve had to practice and practice in a controlled environment to get it to obey him. But for two,  _holy fuck._

“Shit, Bucky,” Steve says, pushing himself up again. “You gave yourself stitches? And then  _walked_ all the way up here?”

Bucky nods, and his eyebrows are pinched together like he’s thinking of something painful but doesn’t want to talk about it. Steve doesn't blame him—the scar underneath the stitching looks ragged and shiny—it must have hurt a lot. He must have been really determined to get here to have walked through the pain like that. But, then again, coming here might have been his only option if he'd gotten far enough away from the road with a wand that didn't want to cooperate.

“Want me to get rid of those for you?” Steve asks, gesturing to the stitches on his leg. Bucky looks up and nods wordlessly, and Steve makes his way to the first aid box that Peter brought up earlier. There are band-aids, tweezers, scissors, potions—everything he could possibly need. The potions are relatively fresh, barely been used—only to patch up scraped knees and bleeding fingertips and such. He takes the tweezers and the scissors and a small alcohol wipe in preparation. Bucky rolls up his jeans more—Steve notices there’s a big tear in it, the same place he got his cut. He feels stupid for not noticing earlier.

He situates himself close to the bed, sitting forward in his chair. He takes the tweezers and his scissors and gets to work: he pulls the thread up, just enough to cut it carefully with the scissors. A small snip, and once it's cut, he pulls it free with the tweezers. Gently.

“Wow,” Bucky says. “That feels fuckin’ weird.”

He huffs a laugh in agreement. Steve can relate to that—he’s had to do this to himself before, and it’s no picnic.

He makes his way through all the stitches. While they're obviously done by an amateur, he can't deny that Bucky followed the correct protocol. There are a lot of them, almost fifteen. Steve throws all the cut pieces into the trashcan when he’s done. Afterwards, he surveys Bucky's leg; there are small holes left behind by the missing stitches.

He sits back down and opens the little packet with the alcohol wipe. “This’ll sting,” he warns, and then quickly wipes the wounds down with the wipe. Bucky twitches a little but doesn’t say anything, and the silence continues when Steve then reaches for the first aid box on autopilot. He looks inside at the labels on the jars and flasks, then grabs the one he needs.

It’s a balm for healing cuts and scrapes, packed inside a small jar with a dulling metal lid. Steve opens it, the lid clanging against the glass, and smears a little bit of the balm on his finger. Steve looks around the skin to assess the damage done, and then gets to work, spreading the balm with a gentle finger over his shin and calf. The wounds heal under his touch, closing right before his eyes.

Steve feels like his mind should be racing, but he’s calm as ever—Sam said that if Bucky really wanted to see him again, Bucky would find his way to him. Steve wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but he didn’t want to seek Bucky out if he didn’t want to be found. And now here he is, and Steve isn’t freaking out like he thought he would. Small miracles.

“I used to do this for you,” Bucky says, and Steve freezes briefly before looking up at Bucky, a grin spreading on his face. Steve isn’t sure why, but the idea that Bucky remembered this seems profound.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms with a chuckle, “and you’d get pissed as hell at me while you were doing it, too.”

Bucky’s lip twitches. An extremely optimistic person would perhaps call it the beginning of a smile.

“Did you deserve it?” Bucky asks.

Steve presses his lips together in a thin line, nodding. “Every word,” he says. With a cough, he looks back down to Bucky’s leg, moving on to the next spot, rubbing the potion into his skin, seeing the spots disappear.

Bucky looks at him, his eyebrows pulling down. “Why didn’t you go to a hospital?”

Steve shrugs. Honestly, Steve never had a good excuse for that, other than the fact that he was just an asshole. He never really had a sense of self-preservation. Back then, the army had been fresher in his mind and the death of his mother had been bubbling just below the surface. Not to mention, the underlying hurt of the end of his relationship with Peggy had been constant, considering he had to see her every day and work with her and pretend like nothing was wrong.

He could put on a front for other people. His co-workers thought he was immaculate: he finished work on time, his collars were always starchy-stiff, his pants pressed, the knots in his tie smooth and silky. At work, he would joke, he would smile, he would fight bad guys, and he’d finish paperwork. At home, though…

The Serum always healed him eventually after missions. He told Sam as much whenever they worked on cases like that. Natasha was harder to fool, and he’s not a hundred percent sure as to why she didn’t just beat his ass into taking care of himself. Clint was always reluctant to tell other people how to live their lives, though he was uncomfortable with Steve’s lack of care for himself. They all cared. But...

It was Bucky who helped the most, seeing Steve coming home like that. Getting in his face about it, no less. Suddenly Steve had realized that he wasn’t just hurting himself with his recklessness—he was hurting other people. After that, the Soul Bond had changed everything—he didn’t want to go out and get hurt knowing that Bucky would get hurt as well, so he had taken less field work, opting to stay behind a desk. He wasn’t crazy about it, but at least he was safe. And then—well.

Steve finishes up and Bucky doesn’t press him to answer, so he just asks, “Is that good?”

Bucky nods, curls his toes and says, “Thank you.”

“Is there any other part of you that hurts?”

Bucky shakes his head quickly. “I’m okay.”

Steve frowns. He wants to tell Bucky that it doesn’t bother him—but he keeps his thoughts to himself and says, “If you change your mind, there’s a bunch of potions and shit in this box. All the bottles are labelled. Just ask me how to put it on properly.”

Bucky looks at him intensely, like he’s thinking of something. Steve wants to ask him so many questions, but the guy just got here, just woke up. Steve doesn’t want to pry, and he doesn’t want to misstep. He goes with something less personal.

“How did you… find us?” Steve asks.

Bucky’s eyes lose their faraway look as he clears his throat. “The wand. It was pulling me in your direction.” He pauses, and then surprised Steve when he snorts. “Wouldn’t just take me directly here, though. I think it can only bring me places I’ve been before. Speaking of which, I’ve got something of yours,” he adds. He leans over to the side of the bed where his backpack sits—Wanda must have brought it up here while Steve was asleep. When Bucky touches it, something starts banging around inside it. Whatever’s in there is as angry as a wet cat.

“Brace yourself,” Bucky warns. “It’s excited.”

Steve’s eyebrows pull together in confusion, not even able to tell Bucky to  _hold on_  when he unzips his backpack and something shoots out and hits Steve square in the chest. He gets the wind knocked out of him like he’s been punched, and he grabs whatever it is firmly, expecting it to be some kind of animal of some sort. He’s very surprised to see that it’s his wand, the one Tony made for him a few months ago. It lights up at his touch, shining so bright it’s nearly blinding.

“Fuck,” Steve says. “Hey, hello,” he greets, like it’s a living being capable of understanding him.

“It didn’t like me very much,” Bucky says. He frowns, poking at a hole in his jeans. “Wouldn’t mend my goddamn clothes, but it’d pull me halfway across the fucking state to get back to you.”

“It just doesn’t know you,” Steve says.

“Has its own agenda, more like.”

Steve snorts, and Bucky cracks a small smile.

When the moment passes, Steve realizes he has no idea where to go from here. He looks down at his hands, twiddling his thumbs. It feels important, for some reason, that he asks this question now before it never gets answered, but he surprises himself when he speaks.

“How much do you remember?” he asks, tilting his head up to look at Bucky, glancing up meekly, trying to not seem prying or threatening.

Bucky presses his lips together, thinks on it, and then reaches down and pulls a notebook out of his backpack.

Steve has a feeling it’s going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title insp by shel silverstein’s poem “a light in the attic”:
> 
> There's a light on in the attic.  
> Though the house is dark and shuttered,  
> I can see a flickering flutter,  
> And I know what it's about.  
> There's a light on in the attic,  
> I can see it from the outside.  
> And I know you're on the inside looking out


	8. Furnace

######  **BUCKY**

They’re awkward at first.

Bucky’s not really sure what to say when it comes to this kind of stuff. Sure, he’s here because—well, Steve seems to be a big part of his past. A missing piece. A link to his past, a direct line to Rumlow’s whereabouts.

He doesn’t know Steve. But the way he acted the other night—well, it wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would be.

_“Why now?” Steve had asked. “Why come here now?”_

_“Now?” Bucky twiddled his thumbs. “I wanted to see you from the beginning. But I didn’t know where you were.” The way Steve had ducked his head, presumably to hide a smile, warmed Bucky’s heart. “I had to see my sister first. I left her such a long time ago. I haven’t been a very good brother.”_

_“Don’t say that. It’s not exactly our fault that you’ve had a few crazy years.”_

_Bucky had huffed a breath that vaguely resembled a laugh. “Each on crazier than the last,” he added. Then he grew somber, the mood in the room suddenly shifting. “I… I almost died with Hydra. I wanted to make sure I got to see her. In case… something happened again.”_

_The way Steve’s face fell nearly broke his damn heart all over again. “Buck…”_

_“I know,” Bucky had said. “I know.”_

Now, now—now, Bucky’s in his new room, trying to decide what to do.

It’s been a few days since he arrived, and once the initial panic of waking up in a different room wore off, he felt himself retreating inside his own body. He’s barely been out of his room in days, only to eat and use the restroom. He wonders why he didn’t freak out like this at Rebecca’s and can’t come up with a reason. Steve doesn’t pry, though—even though Bucky thinks that he must want to know what’s going on.

_“Why Rumlow?” Steve had asked him._

_“What?”_

_“Why Rumlow? Why not Pierce?”_

_Steve had looked at him so earnestly. He wasn’t questioning why Bucky wanted revenge, no—he was wondering_ _who_ _. That struck him as strange, but he didn’t see the harm in telling him._

_“Because Pierce is already in custody. He’ll get what’s coming to him. But Rumlow ran off,” Bucky said. “And he… he was the one who was there, the one who… Let’s just say he didn’t have to run the program like he did. But he did it anyway.”_

There’s something about Steve’s face that makes him want to open up, to tell him everything. Bucky knows that he can’t do that—not because he wants to stew or anything, but because… well, because. It’s personal. It’s everything.

He’s not even sure who Steve is. He knows… that they met in a bar, that they lived together for a period of time. But who was Steve to Bucky? A roommate? A friend? Something else?

_“It’s just frustrating,” Bucky said._

_“What is?” Steve asked._

_“I know that everything’s there, in my head. They didn’t get rid of it, they just—covered it up. But I still can’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces. Like—I knew Rebecca is my sister. But I totally forgot where she was until the wand zapped me there. I don’t know what if I’m learning something for the first time or if someone’s trying to remind me.”_

_“Ask me,” Steve said. “You can ask me anything.”_

There was a part of him, though, that wanted to remember for himself. He didn’t want someone to remind him, he didn’t want someone to potentially feed him lies. He has a feeling that Steve won’t do that, but who knows? Maybe Steve’s the same as everyone else.

He doubted it, though. He didn’t ask Steve questions, but he trusted him. He knew something that could help.

_On a piece of paper, Bucky wrote down the names of every Hydra agent he could possibly remember, with a brief description. After that, he jotted down all the locations of all the facilities that he had knowledge of. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something. Some of them had probably already been found by intelligence agencies, but Steve looked amazed and surprised at some of the locations._

_“Russia? Really?” he’d asked._

_“Dead serious.”_

He just hoped that he wasn’t getting in over his head.

+++

Bucky eventually makes his way downstairs to the kitchen when the hunger pains start getting bothersome enough that he has to risk human interaction.

He rifles through the cupboards, wondering what he’s in the mood for. The selection is kind of staggering, really—he’s not sure where the fuck they get all this food, but it’s a lot. He knows that there are three teenagers living here, but _still_.

He makes himself a sandwich and eats it right there, over the counter. He’s so hungry that he’s considering making another one but he hasn’t even finished this one. Fuck.

Bucky looks up when he sees Wanda enter the kitchen. She seems surprised to see him at first, but her initial shock turns to friendliness almost instantly.

“Bucky, hi,” she says pleasantly. She smiles gently, and then asks, “Do you remember me?”

He stares at her. It takes a second, but—

“Yes,” he says. He cocks his head to the side. “You worked the rock shop down the street from Steve’s apartment, right?” She grins and nods. He smiles back, thinking of their first interaction together. “You’re losing your accent,” he notes.

She smiles. “I can only keep it up so much around all you Americans.”

Bucky chuckles and returns to his thoughts. There was something else, too, and he’s trying to remember. She grabs a granola bar and is heading to leave when the memory starts to trickle back.

“Wait,” he says. She stops and turns around. He searches her face, trying to place her in his memory more firmly—and it hits him. She was the girl! The one who came in after the Healer, in the Red Room. “They brought you in after the mission on the tundra,” he says, confident that he’s right. “They had you—touch me? And then you started crying.”

The smile slips from her face, but she nods. “I’m a Seer. They made me look into your past. I saw… my brother. He died on that mission.”

“Oh,” he says, deflating. “I’m so sorry.”

She shakes her head. “No, no, don’t be sorry. You were such a good friend to him. I’m happy you were there.”

Bucky wracks his brain, but it’s almost painful to force himself to remember things that haven’t come forward by themselves. _Friend_ , she said? Good? He looks at her and says, tentatively, “Seven? Was your brother… Seven?”

She has tears in her eyes, but she nods, saying, “His name was Pietro.”

Bucky thinks of his last day with the kid—Seven, _Pietro_. He looks at her and says, “He broke through Hydra’s conditioning, near the end. He told me he remembered something from his childhood.” Bucky smiles, faintly, sadly. “He didn’t tell me what it was, but I’d bet that it had something to do with you.”

A sob bursts from her lip, and she raises a delicate hand to cover her mouth. On autopilot, he opens his arms, and she rushes into them, wrapping her bony arms around his neck and burying her face into his shoulder. He clutches her tight, both arms wrapped around her back.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice thick. “Thank you for being there for him when I couldn’t.”

“He was a good friend,” Bucky replies, surprised to learn that he has a lump in his throat. He swallows it back, shutting his eyes tightly to force the impending tears away.

When they pull away, Wanda laughs tearfully, smiling at him even though she looks like a mess. Bucky isn’t really much better, probably, but he feels much lighter than he did earlier, for some reason. Pietro’s death had bruised his heart, and he realized that it had been months and months ago, but this was the first time he had ever been able to mourn him.

They take a few moments to straighten themselves out, sniffling and smiling. Wanda gives his shoulder a squeeze, and Bucky feels so strangely… peaceful. So light, so… _okay_.

He hears the other three Seers enter the living room from where they stand in the kitchen. They’re talking and laughing, and Bucky hears them all sit on various pieces of furniture.

“Come on,” Wanda says, gently pulling on his arm. Her eyes aren’t really red anymore, and he assumes that his are probably in a similar state. “You should meet the others. Properly.”

Bucky makes a face, but Wanda isn’t having it. She pulls him into the living room, against his will.

Conversation lulls when the other Seers hear them enter the room. “Hi,” Wanda says. “I brought Bucky.”

“Bucky?” says the one who he thinks is called America. “You mean you got him to come out of hiding?” Bucky would be hurt, except the way her mouth twists when she says it indicates that she’s just joking.

Bucky really doesn’t know how to talk to people anymore. He’s not used to small talk, to jokes. It almost feels foreign to him. But he knows these kids are good people—they won’t make fun of him in a way that’ll make him uncomfortable. What he’s gone through—they understand completely. They’ve done it, too. Maybe not the same—but Hydra used them as tools, too.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Bucky replies, his mouth twitching. It’s not exactly a smirk, but it’s getting there. “Hiding means you don’t know where I am.”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Peter says jokingly, grinning widely. “He’s got a point.”

America waves her hand dismissively at him. “ _Ah_ ,” she says, “whatever. Semantics.”

“Got him to stop being a recluse, then,” Kate says.

“There, that’s it,” America says. “What she said.”

Bucky huffs a little chuckle and goes to sit in the chair across from the couch. “You could say that, I guess,” he says. Then the conversation falls flat, and Bucky tries to think quickly for something to say.

“Do you guys… like it here?” he asks, and then winces, because what the _fuck_.

But the Seers don’t seem perturbed or awkward about it. Wanda and Kate actually nod in agreement, while Peter and America look thoughtful.

“Yeah,” America says. “I like it here. I mean, it took some getting used to, but now I’ve been here long enough to know where everything is. And Steve is really nice.”

“Yeah, I like him,” Peter says. “He never asked me how I went blind. I hate when people ask that.”

Kate and America hum in agreement.

“Right?” America says, throwing her arms out. “Like, it’s pretty personal.” She takes on a mocking tone when she continues, “‘Hey, did you go through some traumatic incident that will cause you to never see again? Please share!’ It’s weird.”

Bucky admits that he never really thought of it like that. Though, he definitely understands—it feels the same way when people keep looking at his arm. Yeah, metal arms aren’t really common, and he could tell they were dying to ask about it. People he didn’t even know—people he just saw on the streets.

“ _My_ favorite,” Kate says, “is when people are like, _So, do you only see darkness then?_ Like, no, asshole. I can see light and shadows and shit. Just not definite shapes or people or things like that. Fuck off.”

“I hate that!” Peter exclaims. “Oh my God. And then they’re like, _So you’re not really blind._ Like, uh, yeah, I still can’t see for shit.”

“Right!” Kate says, equally as loud.

“Or they try to grab your arm and lead you somewhere? Almost killed a guy for doing that to me, once,” America says.

“Oh my God, _yes_ ,” Peter and Kate say at the same time.

Bucky chuckles at the whole spectacle. Their enthusiasm is contagious. It’s nice that they don’t pressure him to respond, and he doesn’t even feel left out. The Seers all go back and forth, jumping in with comments and sarcastic remarks, taking the conversation way off track. Bucky’s starting to zone out a little when Peter gets his attention.

“So, Bucky,” Peter says. “Do you want me to lay my hands on your face and rub around so I can see into your soul? I hear that’s what blind people are supposed to do.”

“Or I could just tell you what I look like,” Bucky says with only a hint of sarcasm.

“No, that takes all the fun out of it! Wait, wait, I want to guess,” Peter says. He holds his arms up like he’s sensing the air, and Wanda giggles. “I’m sensing… you have… blonde hair. And… green eyes. Pale as hell skin. And—wait a sec—you’re five foot eleven.”

“Not even close,” Bucky says.

“Awww,” Peter says, dropping his arms to the couch and pouting. “I thought I was doing so well.”

“You’re an awful psychic,” America tells him.

“You do it, then!” Peter says. “I’ll accept nothing less than perfect.”

“Fine,” America says, and faces in Bucky’s direction. “I think you have… brown hair, brown eyes, darker skin… and… you’re six foot four.”

Bucky laughs. “Yes to the brown hair, no to everything else.”

“Ha!” Peter says. “Not so easy now, huh?”

America laughs, throwing herself back on the couch. “At least I did better than _you_ ,” she says to Peter.

“My turn,” Kate says, sitting up.

“Oh, hi, Steve,” Wanda says.

Bucky turns to the entrance of the room and sees Steve standing there, hands in his pockets. Bucky was so involved in the conversation that he didn’t even hear Steve approach. He seems nervous by the way his shoulders are hunched, but his face betrays no emotion. He looks around, like he’s unsure of what’s happening.

“What’re you guys doing?” he asks.

“We’re guessing what Bucky looks like,” America says.

“Oh,” Steve says. He looks amused. “Why didn’t you guys ever guess what _I_ looked like?”

“We would have,” Peter says, “but now I’ve known you for too long, and if you don’t match the picture of you I’ve made in my head, I’m going to be upset.”

Steve chuckles and says, “Alright, then. Continue.”

Kate leans forward. “I think,” she says, “I think you have… brown hair, like America said. And… like, tannish skin. Not really dark, but not really pale. And… blue eyes? And you’re six feet tall.”

“Almost perfect,” Bucky says, a smile in his voice. He feels a small spark of mischief that he hasn’t felt in—a while. “But missing one crucial detail.”

“What? What’s that?” America asks.

Bucky and Wanda share a crucial glance before he says, “My left arm is made of metal.”

The room is quiet for a split second before Peter breaks into a grin.

“You have a metal arm?” he exclaims to Bucky. “That’s awesome, dude!”

“Peter,” Steve chides.

“What?” Peter replies, perfectly oblivious.

But Bucky is smiling. He’s grinning so hard he thinks his lip might split. These kids—they’re amazing, they’re… _adorable_.

“I mean—” Peter says, going on to fix his blunder, “you’re okay, though? It doesn’t, like, hurt you or anything?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky assures. “It doesn’t hurt me. Besides,” he grins to himself, “I never liked that arm anyway. It was never _right_.”

Peter snorts, then breaks into a full-body laugh. “I can’t believe you’re just a huge dork.”

They all talk a little more, moving on to another topic completely. Steve approaches a little bit, stopping next to Bucky. He leans down while the Seers carry on, getting close enough that no one else hears.

“Hey,” he says. “You mind coming with me? I need to talk to you about something.”

Bucky blinks, and then says, “Uh, yeah, sure.” He moves to get up and follows Steve as he exits the room.

They don’t go very far, but they go far enough to be out of the earshot of the Seers. The kids love nothing more than being nosy, as Steve told him the other night. After talking to them, he doesn’t doubt it.

Steve takes him upstairs, and they move to the back of the hallway. “What’s going on?” Bucky asks, because Steve’s lack of emotion is starting to get to him.

“Natasha gave me an update about the investigation,” he says.

Bucky feels a jolt go through him. Steve told him all about the investigation—he’d read a lot of the info in the newspapers, but Steve is a lot more knowledgeable than them when Natasha is the one on the case.

“And…?” Bucky prompts.

Steve sighs. “Bad news is that they haven’t found Rumlow yet. Like, the guy’s a ghost. Good news, though, is that the locations you gave them were invaluable,” he says. He smiles a little bit. “We took out a lot of bases, liberated a lot of people held hostage there. People are going back to their families.”

Bucky nods. “That’s good.” That makes him feel better. He wasn’t really expecting that they find Rumlow yet, because he’s a slippery motherfucker. He can’t keep hiding forever, though, and now that they have a name means that they’re at least looking for the right person.

“But…?” Steve prompts, sensing his hesitancy.

Bucky frowns a little, trying to think of how to phrase it. He can’t shake the feeling that he should be the one out there, dismantling the bases himself. But he also knows that he should probably screw his head on straight before he gets back in the field. That might take a while. A long while. But…

He looks Steve in the eye and says, “Tell Natasha that when they find Rumlow, I want to be the one to take him out.”

The guy’s face nearly makes him laugh, his eyebrows pulling in with surprise. “Buck…” he says, a frown marring his features. “Are you sure that’s the best idea?”

“What do you mean?”

Bucky knows, off course—he knows what he told Steve, but still his hackles raise. He doesn’t want to be treated like a child, like he’s made of glass.

“You told me…” Steve sighs. “He has your trigger words, man. He says a few words and you’re back under his control again.”

“Then let’s get rid of them,” Bucky says, before realizing that he has absolutely no idea if that’s even something that’s possible.

Steve reflects the sentiment. “Is there even a way to do that?” he asks.

“There must be,” Bucky says, though he’s not sure. But—“Steve, this is important to me. If I can guarantee that Rumlow isn’t out there anymore, that he can’t hurt me anymore, that he can’t hurt anyone anymore—it would mean the world to me. Please.”

Steve looks at him. “Okay. Okay. I’ll tell her. And… I guess we’ll see about lifting that curse. I’m sure there’s something.”

Even if he’s not sure it’s possible, he feels hopeful. “Thank you.”


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly, I didn't plan for the chapter title to work out this way.  
> Anyway, have two-parts domestic fluff and one-part plot. :^)

Strangely enough, this is the calmest Bucky’s life has been since his father died.

As a kid, he had a good, comfortable life—his parents were both affluent, living in a spacious house on the outskirts of the city. Of course, those days were filled with going to school and generally doing things. This life is different; much more subdued, floating around from activity to activity, not quite fully awake before he’s falling back asleep.

As much as he appreciates the quiet life that comes with living in a secluded cabin in the Rocky Mountain Forest, he really doesn’t have a lot to do during the day other than work out. There’s no TV, and while there is wi-fi, it gets boring just looking at his phone and lying in bed all day.

He wants to do something. But he can’t really do much that isn’t confined to the house—he could go outside, yes, but he’s kind of wary, considering what happened the last time he was out there, and he figures he’ll leave the hiking and shit until it’s a little bit warmer.

Still, he’s antsy, so he gets up in the morning and decides to work out. It’s about 8 AM; the only one who’s usually up at this hour is Steve, as the kids tend to sleep in. There’s a soft, natural light making his curtains glow, and he can see little dust motes floating in the air from where he is in his bed. The quilt he sleeps under is old but it seems to be handmade, and it bunches up around his waist when he pushes himself into a sitting position.

There are a few minutes where he just sits there, his mind a slow, grayish quiet. He blinks into the light of his room, staring at the wall opposite him, then he pulls the covers back and starts to get ready.

He gets dressed in athletic attire and pulls his hair back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Then he heads to the basement floor, being as silent as he possibly can in a house full of old, creaky floors.

When he opens the basement door, he’s surprised to hear someone already down there. He assumes it’s Steve, but it turns out to be Kate beating the shit out of a punching bag.

While it isn’t exactly a rare occurrence to see Kate working out, he’s surprised that she’s doing it by herself. She tends to work out with America or Peter or someone, at least. She looks like she’s been here a while—her hair limp and her face shiny with sweat.

He doesn’t really think much of it, and puts his headphones in and stretches, and then hops on the treadmill to run a few miles. It takes a little bit longer than usual—again, he really needs to stop spending so much time in bed—but once he’s run five miles, he stops and slows to a jog, and then a walk to cool down. When he turns around, he’s surprised to see Kate still at the punching bag. Bucky’s been down here for the better part of an hour, and the wrappings on her hands are coming loose and drooping down her arms. She’s grunting with the pain of effort, and a little seed of fear plants itself in his stomach. The girl is pushing herself way too hard. She should have at least stopped for a break by now.

“Kate,” he says, but she ignores him. “Kate,” he tries again.

When she doesn’t respond, he goes over there and lays a hand on her shoulder to stop her next punch.

She swings around and almost decks him, and it’s just by the skin of his teeth that he leans out of the way in time.

“Whoa, whoa, sorry—” Bucky says, backing away. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I thought you heard me calling you.”

“Bucky?” she asks, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Her knuckles are red and nearly skinless. “What do you want?”

“You were making me worried,” he tells her. “You were going really hard and not taking a break. And then you weren’t hearing me talk to you.”

“I’m fine,” she says, too quickly for him to believe her.

“Okay, no,” Bucky says. “You’re not. Come on, what’s going on?”

She starts to undo the wrapping on her hands rather than answer him, pulling the cloth off and balling it in her hands. She grimaces, probably feeling the pain in her arms and her hands right about now. Bucky waits patiently for her to say something.

It takes a few moments, but she says, “My head is just…”

Bucky waits while she gathers herself. She’s blink so rapidly that he’s afraid she might cry.

“It’s just so loud,” she admits, “in my head. Everyone else seems to be getting better. Like, the training is helping them and their minds are going quiet, but mine is just—always on, always going.” She grits her teeth when she raises a hand to run through her hair. “My senses are going crazy all the time. I feel the air moving around me and can smell as well as a fucking dog or something, and I hear—everything. I can hear your heartbeat from where I’m standing. Everything is just so much. I can’t just wait here and see if it gets better so I just…” She gestures over to the punching bag. “Working hard makes it go quiet. At least for a little while.”

That’s a lot, Bucky knows, and he’s not sure how to really help her. He feels his heart ache for her a little bit.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

When Hydra gave him the arm, it was… weird. Getting used to it was terrifying. He felt out of control—Kate must be feeling that, times a thousand. When he was feeling particularly strange or like he wanted his head to go quiet, he’d spar with someone or go to the shooting range. They don’t really have snipers or pistols here, but… he did see something quite interesting in the supply room when he first came here and scouted out the house.

“Come here,” Bucky says, moving towards Kate to offer his arm. The supply room is just on the other side of the gym, and he’s sure that what he’s looking for hasn’t moved since he first got here. “I think I have something that could help you.”

Kate crosses her arms, shrinking in on herself. “Bucky…”

“Come on,” Bucky insists gently. “I think you might like it.”

Reluctantly, Kate takes his arm, obviously feeling a little wary about what he’s about to do. Out of all the Seers, he probably knows Kate the least, but he has a strong feeling that she’s going to like what he has to offer.

“When I was in Hydra, they had us do all this training,” he says. He makes his way to the supply room, Kate loosely holding onto his arm. “Covert ops, that kind of stuff. Apparently, I was good at it, because they didn’t kill me.” He chuckles at that because he thinks he’s hilarious, but Kate is just waiting for him to get to the point and stop being so goddamn morbid.

“Anyway,” he says, opening the door and walking inside. He wiggles out of Kate’s grip and goes to the corner; the room is littered with shelves of unused workout equipment. “Hydra—they made me into a sniper. It was the only time my head ever went completely silent when I was with them.” He finds what he’s looking for—Tony really has this place stocked with crazy shit, but whatever—and brings it over to Kate: a bow and a quiver of arrows, he tells her.

“Tony doesn’t have a sniper rifle up here, but I don’t think that’s your style,” Bucky says. “Maybe these.”

“Bow and arrow?” she asks, running her fingers over the fletchings of one of the arrows, but not taking it from his hands. “I’m blind.”

Bucky’s mouth quirks up. “I know that. But what about your other senses, huh? You can feel the gust of wind. You can hear the target moving, just a little bit. Sight would just get in the way.”

Again, she looks wary. But she also looks tired—exhausted, really. After a second, he watches as she hardens in her resolve. Kate accepts the bow and quiver from him. And then she nods.

+++

Kate picks it up surprisingly quickly.

They’re outside; it’s still pretty early, but the sun is starting to break through the trees. It’s still pretty chilly right now, but Bucky knows that by midday it’ll be blisteringly hot. That’s life, up in the mountains.

She shoots every target, dead-center. It takes her a while, though—she lines up every shot, takes a deep breath, and listens carefully. Feels the cross breeze. Tightens her grip on the bow, then lets her fingers slip from the string and makes the arrow fly. Bucky doesn’t know how she does it, but she hits her target perfectly every time. Whether it’s far away, up close. He’s sure she’d be able to hit a moving target, but it still takes her some time to get her shot lined up before she does it, so that’ll come later.

Kate is the one who eventually decides to go back into the house; her black hair is starting to come out of her ponytail, and her fingers are a little red from pulling the bowstring back again and again, and her arms and hands are starting to shake from her workout earlier, but she’s smiling and her cheeks are red from the cold and it’s the most content that Bucky has seen her in his whole time that he’s been here.

She holds on to the crook of his elbow as they make their way back to the house, bow and quiver in hand. She deposits them by the door before they go inside. Bucky holds the door open for her and she goes inside gratefully.

Upon entering the house, Bucky is greeted by the sweet smell of someone cooking breakfast. It’s a mix of bacon and eggs, as well as something sweet, he can’t quite put his finger on it. Bucky and Kate go to the dining room, where they find their housemates all sitting at the table in front of empty plates. There’s a plate of bacon in the center, still steaming, next to a bowl of scrambled eggs.

Peter is half-awake, still in his pajamas, leaning his head on his hand as he tries to stay awake. Wanda looks pretty alert, her hair in an inexpert bun on her head and actually dressed, wearing a loose red shirt and black pants. America is somewhere in the middle of their respective states, looking sleepy but still more awake than Peter. She’s currently trying to wrangle her thick, bouncy hair into a braid (and losing the battle, it seems).

“Do I smell…” Kate sniffs once, and then again, more deeply. “Pancakes?”

“You are correct,” Steve says as he enters from the kitchen, wielding a platter of a metric fuckton of pancakes.

“Bucky,” Steve says as he sets down the platter, “could you get the wand? I left it in the kitchen.”

“Why’d you have the wand with you in the kitchen?” Bucky asks.

Steve turns a flattering shade of pink. “I, uh—” He frowns, rearranging the pieces of cutlery by his plate like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “I couldn’t get the matches to light up the stove.”

“So you used the wand?” Using the wand to light up the stove kind of felt like using a waterfall to fill up a glass of water.

“Maybe,” Steve says.

Bucky rolls his eyes and goes to the kitchen to grab the wand. He finds it on the counter next to the stove, along with a carton of eggs, an empty package of bacon, and a dirty mixing bowl. He crosses the small kitchen in three strides and goes to pick up the wand.

—and is surprised when it shocks him. It doesn’t hurt, but it does surprise the hell out of him, enough that he drops it immediately. The wood clatters to the floor, echoing loudly throughout the kitchen.

He frowns to himself. Yeah, the wand never really liked him, but it never tried to hurt him before—this is completely new, and a little unsettling to him.

The conversation in the dining room stops suddenly. “Everything alright, Buck?” Steve calls to him.

Bucky stares at his hands for a second longer before he shakes himself, putting the strange feeling into the back of his mind.

“Fine,” Bucky assures. “It’s all fine.”

He picks up the wand, tentatively this time, and it doesn’t shock him again, which he finds odd. He wonders for a brief second if he imagined it, but his hand is still tingling where it electrocuted him.

He enters the dining room again and hands the wand to Steve, who takes it gratefully.

“Where were you guys? We couldn’t find you anywhere in the house,” Steve asks him as he goes around the side of the table to take a seat.

“I was getting worried,” America says from her spot at the table. “I know Kate would never miss breakfast. I thought the world was ending.”

Kate smiles fondly.

God. The way they act around each other—it’s ridiculously cute. And obvious.  But still, very cute.

“We were outside,” Bucky says. “Training.”

“Before noon?” Peter says. “Sounds awful.”

Kate smiles a secret little smile. Maybe to herself, maybe to Bucky, he doesn’t know. “It wasn’t so bad,” she says. She sits down next to America and tells Peter to stop hogging the syrup.

+++

In his spare time—and he has nothing but spare time, nowadays—in his spare time, Bucky continues his work on the wand… baseball bat… thing. He researches the expanses of spellbooks in the library and finds nothing about breaking the curse that Rumlow put on him, but he does find the sigils and glyphs that he wants to put on his baseball-bat-wand-thing.

Steve let him study the sigils on his wand, but he practically needed a magnifying glass to see them. But he wrote them down and matched them to the sigils in the books that he’s found. Most of them are pretty general, and he wonders if he needs to activate them all himself. He figures he will anyway, just to be safe.

The sigils are beautiful, little pictures telling a whole story of archaic magic and alchemy. Sigils are a facet of a relatively safe and strong medium of magic—enchantments—if a little time-consuming. Enchantments are good and can be lifted if need be. There’s really only one medium of magic stronger than enchantments, and those are curses.

Curses, though—curses can only be lifted if the caster dies, and are usually only used for ill-intent.

Bucky shivers at the thought. Curses are universally banned among cunning folk, if not for legal then personal reasons. Curses do one thing—take; take from the caster, or take from the person or thing they are cast on. The retribution from the curse might not be immediate, but it eventually comes back to them, even worse.

He shakes off the thought, not wanting the negativity of his thoughts to affect the task at hand. He stencils the sigils into the bat with a pencil first, trying to be as precise as possible. He doesn’t really get a second chance to do this, so he’s careful. Then he goes over them with the tip of a knife, the line surprisingly clean and even. It’s kind of terrifying to think of how well his knife skills improved during his time with Hydra.

He lays his hand on the sigils and takes a deep breath, remembering his training with Steve. He looks for his intent, knows he has the ability. He lays his hand over and whispers the words that the book instructed him to. The incantation falls easily off his tongue, each syllable melodic and purposeful.

Waiting, he pauses to watch the sigils brighten and signal that the spell has worked, but nothing happens; the sigils remain there, unlit, unactivated. He frowns and looks at the book again. He searches the page—he definitely drew them right, they should be lighting up… He tries to activate it again, laying his hand over the sigil and murmuring the spell. But the carving just remains there, darkened. He doesn’t feel the rush of magic, the tingling of his body to indicate that he has any magic at all.

Something’s wrong.

 

Bucky spends the whole day in his room, trying to find some sort of solution to his problem. It was just a little while ago that he was casting spells with Steve’s wand. Of course, it didn’t like him, but at least he was still able to cast them. Right now, there’s nothing coming to him. No magical feeling, no tingling in his arm, nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

It’s nearly midnight and he can’t sleep. He’s standing in the hallway, wearing sweatpants and a cotton shirt, his feet bare and his hair a goddamn tragedy.

He knocks on Steve’s door.

There’s a light on in his room, spilling out from under the door. He can hear Steve bumbling around inside, the soft thumps of him moving things and walking around. Bucky isn’t sure of Steve’s sleep schedule, but he doesn’t think that it’s quite normal.

He hears Steve start moving towards the door, his shadow eclipsing the light that floods from underneath the crack of the door. Then it opens, revealing Steve, wearing thin sweatpants and a t-shirt that actually isn’t too tight for once.

“Hey,” Steve says. His lips move like he’s about to smile but then he represses it instead, and Bucky doesn’t get a chance to process that before he asks, “What’s going on, Buck?”

Honestly, Bucky isn’t sure. He’s not completely aware of the reason why he’s going to Steve for advice in the middle of the night, just that he seems like the right person to ask in a situation like this, even if he won’t have the answer right away.

The way Steve is with the kids, how he tries to fix everything and rushes to help, even if he can’t make everything okay with just a wave of his hand… it makes Bucky trust him. He doesn’t know who Steve was to him—his memory is still spotty, of course—but, here, now… Bucky might love him a little bit. _Might_.

Anyway. Bucky looks at the metal arm, folding his fingers into a fist and then unfurling them one by one. There’s a sense of dread unfurling in his stomach, gripping his heart tightly before  “I don’t… know,” he admits. “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on. But when I tried to activate a sigil today, nothing happened. At all. It didn’t light up, I didn’t get the feeling…”

Steve’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, and he steps aside to let Bucky into his room. He enters gratefully.

“So,” Steve says, striding across the room to sit on his bed. “Explain to me again what you think is going on?”

He feels himself frown deeply, trying to put his fears into words.

“I… I think I’m losing my magic,” he says.


	10. Holy Water Holy Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for being so patient! This chapter was a real bitch to write, so I focused on other works for a little bit before I came back to this one. I'm trying to finish the sequel to Young Kings before the summer is over! I tried proofreading as best as I could, but if anything doesn't make sense please don't hesitate to ask me. :)

######  **STEVE**

_LOSS OF MAGICAL ABILITIES: CAUSES AND TREATMENT_

_Witches may temporarily lose their ability to perform spells if their souls have been severely damaged. Many things can cause someone to lose their magical abilities. Some of the most common examples include the loss of a loved one, a divorce, a car accident, etc. Most cases of lost magic are attributed to traumatic or violent experience, or, in rare cases, severe emotional damage over time. Loss of magic is usually not permanent, but therapy is recommended in order to make a full recovery, as victims may find this to become a recurring problem if treatment is not sought. Loss of magical abilities may also be a combination of two or more factors._

_Loss of magical ability can also occur after “magical burnout,” where the individual in question has performed many spells that require a lot of energy in a short amount of time. In this case, loss of magical abilities is almost absolutely temporary, unless this condition is exacerbated by other existing conditions. Many doctors mandate rest and recharge to make a full recovery—at least a few weeks. However, please consult a specialist for more personal treatment._

_Another contributor to loss of magical abilities is curse side-effects; if you have cast a curse, or have had a curse cast on you, within the past year, it is very likely that your loss of magical abilities is a side-effect of this and—_

+++

“Okay, stop,” Bucky says.

Steve lowers the book from where he’s holding it up to read.

They’re in the supply room, downstairs, looking through the old books that line many of the shelves. A lot of them are spellbooks of varying ages, from the newest, trendiest books to the vintage, to the antique. Steve had asked Tony for spellbooks since he had thought there wouldn’t be much to do up here, but he hadn’t realized that he’d basically gotten a whole library out of the request.

Steve had finally found a book containing various medical conditions relating to cunning-folk: spontaneous telekinesis, Witch’s Hand, weak-will disorder. Finally, they found this entry, detailing the loss of magical abilities. From the sound of it, it seems to be a fairly rare condition. Steve has certainly never met someone who’s lost their magic—temporarily or otherwise.

But on a happier note, it turns out Bucky’s condition wasn’t as bad as they thought, originally. Bucky was able to cast some minor spells with the help of the wand, and Steve’s presence there probably also helped a little, whether Bucky knows it or not. But what really worried Steve was that Bucky was having trouble changing into his familiar form—it took longer than it used to, and then he could only hold it for a short time before he was sling-shotted back into his human form.

He’s never seen anything like it. He’s never met a witch or a familiar who’s ever had some sort of involuntary magical block. Most cunning folk who don’t perform magic usually _choose_ not to do so for personal reasons.

And, Steve thinks, this is completely _unfair_ to Bucky, who worked so hard to be able to turn to his familiar form when they first met. And now something is just taking it away from him? Against his will?

Steve knows that Bucky expresses himself through magic. It’s one of the things in his life that brings him happiness; that’s why he wanted to learn spells and potion-making to begin with. It’s just so _frustrating_ —

“I can see you thinking over there,” Bucky says.

Steve snaps his head to Bucky, torn away from his thoughts. “I—sorry,” Steve says.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” Bucky asks.

Steve looks at him and even though everything about him has changed—long hair, metal arm, new scars in new places, tired—he sees the same guy he met in a Southern bar, irritated at him for his lack of subtlety and tact. The same guy with the kind eyes, Brooklyn accent, and prickly attitude guarding his soft heart.

“It’s just—it’s just… not fair,” Steve stutters.

Bucky smiles just barely at that. “Nothing about any of this is fair, Steve,” Bucky says, not unkindly. He has an ironic little smile on his face that tells Steve he’s not going to like what he hears. He lifts his right hand and starts counting off on each finger. “ _One_ , we’re living in a cabin in the Rocky Mountains, twenty miles from civilization because the government is after you for exposing how corrupt it is. _Secondly_ , we live with a bunch of kids who were kidnapped from their families, experimented on by that same organization that you exposed, and now are _also_ being hunted down by the government. And they _say_ it’s for the trial against Pierce, but we know what they _really_ want is to see really far into the future.”

He lowers his hands, his shoulders relaxing as he looks up at Steve. “And I’m here, too.” He says it so gently. “Made into a weapon. No memories, no magic. Metal arm.”

“Yeah. I get it,” Steve says. “I just don’t like it.”

It terrifies Steve how Hydra was able to do that to Bucky—turn him into a fighting, killing machine. The pieces were already there. Bucky knew how to fight, from his experiences running from witches and from what Steve taught him. He was already fiercely loyal. He was already intelligent, a good problem-solver.

Hydra didn’t create the Soldier from scratch. Hydra didn’t empty Bucky out and fill him with a new personality, they just carved out the memories that made the man and gave him something new to chase after.

“You don’t deserve this,” Steve says. “That’s all.”

“You think so?”

Bucky comes towards him, and if the situation were different, Steve might think that he’s checking him out, the way he looks Steve up and down. Bucky’s so incredibly soft right now—it must be near three in the morning, and his hair’s in a bun, he’s wearing sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. Steve wants nothing more than to get into his space, bury his face into the crook of his neck and just be.

Steve must be tired, so incredibly tired, because he promised himself that he would keep his hands to himself, be an adult about this. Even if his soul hurts just thinking about that short period of time where they were Bonded, where they were one entity. He has to get over the fact that Bucky might never get his memory back, and he has to be okay with that, the idea that Bucky might not love him again like he loved Steve before. He has to be okay with that.

“Um,” Steve says, shaking the thoughts away, “does any of that sound like you? Any of those… circumstances?”

Bucky thinks about it. “I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, the emotion… thing. Could be me. But I don’t know why it wouldn’t show up sooner, you know? Like, when I first got here, or when I first went on the streets. I mean, the wand didn’t like me, but it didn’t… I don’t know. I don’t think it’s that.”

“Okay,” Steve says, not wanting to push it. Steve feels like it doesn’t really matter when the issue shows up if emotional distress is the cause, but he’s not going to push the issue if Bucky doesn’t feel like talking about it.

He looks back down to the book, studying the passage again. Maybe there’s something else in here that can help him. He goes over the symptoms again: _violent or emotional trauma, magical burnout, curse side-effect._

Curse side-effect…

An idea is flitting around in his head, and he doesn’t know exactly how to externalize it in the way he wants to. He looks over at Bucky, going to ask for help, only to catch him already staring. Steve smiles tiredly at him. “What is it?” he asks softly.

Bucky tilts his head to the side, blinking owlishly at him. “I can’t figure you out,” he admits. Steve stands absolutely still as Bucky steps a little closer to him, getting into his space. He peers up and looks at Steve like he’s studying him.

He flushes red at Bucky’s watchful gaze, willing himself to not be too fucking obvious and failing miserably. “What do you mean?” he asks, clearing his throat in a way he hopes is subtle.

“I remember… bits and pieces of you,” Bucky says. “I remember you… teaching me. Like you do with the kids.”

“Well…” Steve trails off, unsure of what to say. “Yeah. Um, what else do you remember?”

“I remember being really pissed off at you a lot,” he supplies.

Steve barks a laugh. “Yeah, that happened sometimes.” His mouth twists into an ironic little smile. “I wasn’t exactly the easiest person to live with. Gone a lot… and, I mean, you remember patching me up after missions.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I remember.”

Steve looks at him. He wants to know everything he remembers—he wants to know if he remembers that they were together. He wants to know if he remembers they’re a True Bond, he wants to know if Bucky’s soul cries out for him the way Steve’s does. He wants to know everything, but he doesn’t want to push Bucky away with his questions.

“Who patched you up while I was gone?”

“Uh.” Steve grimaces, knowing how his next statement is going to sound even though he hasn’t said it yet. “No one, really,” he admits.

Bucky’s frowns at him and gives him the beginnings of a glare. “You mean you just let yourself—”

“No, no,” Steve says quickly, trying to remedy his mistake. “I mean, I didn’t really do dangerous missions like that. I mostly just… did desk work.” Which is code for _I sulked the whole time because you weren’t there and I was sad._

Bucky sees right through him. “ _You_ did desk work? You? Without going crazy or killing somebody?”

Steve laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “You caught me. I did kill a man.”

Buky fake gasps and has the good grace to look scandalized. Steve grins and Bucky laughs a _real_ laugh. He would never admit it, not in a million years, but he was getting a little jealous of the Seers, because they made Bucky happy so effortlessly. He felt at ease around them in a way that he didn’t around Steve, at least not in the same way. Steve missed this—he missed being close to him, joking with him, being together in a way that was easy and fun. He’s been so afraid of doing something wrong that he’s forgotten that Bucky isn’t made of glass.  

“Just one?” Bucky teases.

“There may or may not have been more,” Steve says, smirking.

He’s looking at Steve the way he used to, a little dancing spark in his eyes. The past few days, Steve has started to notice Bucky getting more and more comfortable in the house—he’s helped the Seers out more than he realizes, and Steve is warmed by the thought that they’re all recovering together.

Let’s get one thing straight: Steve doesn’t want things to go back to how they were. That would be crazy. They’ve both changed too much, firstly, but also because the past wasn’t perfect. Steve had a lot of shit going on, and while Bucky helped him in the past, there was no way he could have fixed all of Steve’s problems. He had more going on than simply being lonely. His mother’s death, the loss of his relationship with Peggy, and the army had all set up camp in his thoughts and blackened his mood, his attitude, his entire life. And he took it out on himself, and Bucky, and basically every person around him.

So, yeah. Things can’t ever go back to how they were.

But looking at Bucky right now, he’s transported back in time, to the brownstone. The look on Bucky’s face is familiar—hah—Steve saw it once in the training room, when Steve pinned him during a training session, and once when they were in the library and Steve taught Bucky about spells and admitted that he was willing to Bond, and then a third time, when Steve felt Bucky’s emotions for the first time after they Bonded. Because that was the time that Steve walked him up to his room and—

Steve clears his throat and takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest, effectively stopping himself from doing something stupid like, say, brush that one strand of hair out of Bucky’s face because it keeps falling into his eyes, or maybe run a hand down Bucky’s metal arm to see if it’s the same temperature or texture of his flesh arm, or say fuck it and _kiss him._

“Didn’t you say something about a curse?” Steve asks. And, yeah, _that_ effectively kills the mood.

“What?” Bucky looks confused at the sudden topic change, and Steve mentally berates himself. _Smooth, Rogers._

“Like…” Steve shrugs, taking a step back so he can lean on one of the folding tables overflowing with various objects. It creaks as Steve rests his weight on it, and something definitely clicks and rolls around with a distinct metallic sound. Tony has some really weird shit down here. “Didn’t Rumlow cast a curse on you? The one with the trigger words?”

Bucky looks slightly uncomfortable as he shuffles in place. Steve hates to pry, but this is information that is vital to the task at hand. Steve doesn’t know if he should try to comfort Bucky, or if that would just make it worse. “I don’t know specifically if it was a curse,” he admits. “But I… I guess it could be.”

Steve nods, tucking his arms in harder around his chest. “What was it called, again?”

“The Siren’s Song.” Bucky stares down at his hands, metal and flesh. “He says a few words to invoke his will in me, and then everything after that, I just… _want_ to do what he tells me. Even if I know it’s fucked up.”

There’s a soft whirring from the overhead lights, casting an artificial glow over their heads. Steve drops his arms to his sides, gripping the edge of the table in an attempt to ground himself. God.

“It made me sick the first time he did it,” Bucky mutters. “I felt like I was watching my body do things while I was in the back of my head, totally fucking helpless.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “What happened while he was casting it? Did it… hurt you? What…”

Bucky takes a deep breath. “I know it was blood magic. That’s… that’s all.”

That makes Steve’s heart sink. Not all blood magic are curses—Bonding being one of the big exceptions—but all curses are blood magic, see. It’s of the strongest forms of magic leftover from the old times: blood carries the caster’s very essence, their DNA. It’s the best indication of a strong, intense will. A contract. A _sacrifice_.

Steve looks down. “Nothing that makes you feel so bad can be a regular spell.” He looks at the toe of his sock like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. While it’s nice to have an answer, it’s kind of made things a little more complicated. There’s only one way to lift a curse.

“So, we get rid of the curse, we get rid of the magical block?” Bucky says.

Steve takes a deep breath. “Seems like it,” he says.

Bucky nods again, taking a deep breath. “So we just… kill him? And the curse is gone?”

“I mean… I don’t know,” Steve admits. “I mean, yeah, that’s the way to lift the curse. But we need him in the trial against Hydra. His testimony is the only thing that can safeguard you and the Seers from getting convicted for all the things you did under Hydra’s influence.”

Bucky frowns runs his hand through his hair. “Fuck.”

+++

The Seers are starting to get worried about them—being up so late that they’re up _early._ Every morning, Steve and Bucky are the first ones in the kitchen, and every afternoon, they’re both so tired that they fall asleep doing various tasks: reading, cleaning, and—once, _only once_ —mid-conversation with Peter.

On one particular occasion, Steve wakes up on the couch to find his phone buzzing on the floor next to him; he picks it up wearily. He barely ever gets calls anymore, now that he’s not working. He never really realized the full extent to which his job affected his life until he didn’t have one anymore, but that’s not important right now.

He sits up abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face. The spellbook he was apparently reading falls off his chest and onto the ground—he must have dozed off while he was reading on the couch.

The phone buzzes again in his hand, bringing his attention to it. He notices Natasha’s name flashing on the screen, and he swipes his thumb across the screen to answer it.

“Hello?” he answers, his voice thick with tiredness.

“Steve,” Natasha says. “It’s Rumlow.”

Straightening up immediately, he feels a rock drop in the pit of his stomach. “What about Rumlow?”

He can hear the smile in her voice as she goes on to say, “Steve, we’re close.”

 

When Steve hangs up nearly twenty minutes later, he’s feeling unsure and excited in equal measures. This is their chance to end everything for good—but, he knows, Bucky is far from ready to go after his old handler.

Turns out Rumlow isn’t even in the US—Natasha pinned his last known location down in Canada, outside one of the major cities. His last known place of residence was a tiny apartment in one of the shittier areas in town, and it gives Steve a little bit of vindictive relief to know that the asshole wasn’t living in luxury.

Natasha says that they should have his current location down soon. A few weeks, a month at the most.

He’s afraid of telling Bucky—he could react any number of ways, really, but the reality is that he can’t go after Rumlow when he’s still got the Siren Song still on him.

Sighing, Steve picks up the book that had fallen off his stomach when he sat up to take the call and really looks at it for what feels like the first time. It’s so _strange_ ; he looks at the cover, the font of the title. It’s in a language that he doesn’t understand, but the text glitters and shifts like water. He rubs his eyes, because for whatever reason it gives him a headache to look at. When he looks back, the title is now in English, reading _Beginning Alchemy: Spells and Potions, Vol. IV._

He opens the book and reads through the table of contents idly. He wonders, firstly, why there’s an _alchemy_ book, of all things, in Tony’s basement. Alchemy was a primitive form of spell-casting, an unholy union of science and magic, popular far before Steve’s birth. The first magicians relied on sacrifices and bloodletting to invoke their will, but alchemists relied on the four elements of water, air, earth, and fire—very different from today’s magic. In some ways, it was more powerful than today’s magic, but also much more uncontrollable. Botching an alchemical spell meant more than just pain, it could mean _death_.

Thanking everything that’s holy that he never had to grow up in a world where alchemy was the primary form of magic, Steve decides that he’s probably not going to find what he’s looking for in a book that is very much illegal and shouldn’t be in Tony’s house in the first place. Just as he’s about the shut the book and take it back downstairs, however, a chapter title catches his eye— _Chapter Four: Cleansing Mind, Body, and Soul._

Intrigued, Steve turns to the page referred in the table of contents, looking through the spells and potions of the title.

As he flips through the pages, he finds something that just might work.

It’s dangerous, and Bucky is definitely not going to like it, but _it just might work_.

Elated and nervous in equal measures, Steve shoots off of the couch as quickly as possible and goes to find Bucky.

+++

He finds Bucky downstairs, sitting on the unfinished concrete of the storage room, the lights buzzing away above him.

“Hey,” Steve says, an electric feeling in his head and in his stomach.

“Hey,” Bucky greets, sounding bitter. He snaps a book closed with more force than necessary and flings it away from him with a disgruntled growl.

“Ugh!” he exclaims. “Fuck!”

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, a little awed by this show of emotion. He stands with the book clutched tightly by his side, like it’ll disappear if he holds it too loosely.

“I’ve looked through every book, Steve,” Bucky spits. “ _Every_ book. _Twice_.” He drags his knuckles down his face angrily. “There’s nothing. Nothing! I’m fucked!”

Nervously, Steve holds up the book he has. “Um, well—”

“What?” Bucky immediately gets to his feet and crosses the room to get to Steve. “What is it? Do you have something?”

Steve half-smiles, half-grimaces, feeling sheepish. “You’re not going to like it,” he warns.

“Give it to me.”

Steve hands the book over, its water-like text still flashing and churning. Bucky flips the book open to the dog-eared page and begins to read.

+++

## HOLY WATER HOLY FIRE

###  _A potion to cleanse the user of previous spells, enchantments, or curses._

##### REQUIRED

  * Bowl of water
  * A flame
  * 2 participants
  * A bottle (to hold the finished potion)



##### PLEASE NOTE

_Magic, like all energy, cannot be created, nor can it be destroyed. You must find a host to hold the enchantments that you wish to rid yourself of, as the energy must be transferred somewhere._

_The host must be human if you yourself are human; putting your enchantments into a tree will cause the enchantment to spread to the roots, and then the soil. Putting your curse into a rock will not suffice, either; the rock will erode, and the curse will spread to the river, and so on._

##### INSTRUCTIONS

  * Invoke your will.
  * Call on the power of the four elementals.
  * Draw the sigil onto the bottle or vessel that the potion will be held in:



  * The participant wishing to be cleansed must mix the fire and the water. If your will is strong, the fire will not be extinguished. Pour the mixture into the bottle. If you are not to drink it immediately, cork the bottle until ready to use.
  * Before drinking the potion, face the person who will be the host of your spells/enchantments/curses/etc. Take their hand and hold tightly while you drink the potion with your other hand. Be sure to drink the entire bottle and not let go of the host’s hand.
  * Every spell, curse, etc, will be transferred over to the new host. You are now cleansed.



+++

“You’re right,” Bucky scowls. “I don’t like it.”

He shuts the book angrily and shoves it into Steve's hands. Steve gestures around aimlessly, accepting the book before Bucky took out his righteous fury on it.

“Okay, I know what you’re thinking—”

“What the fuck, Steve!” he explodes. He grabs his hair like he’s going to tear it out, and then lets his hands fall by his sides helplessly. “Okay, first of all, alchemy? You think  _alchemy_ is going to solve all our problems? Why not just use dark magic? Why not just use any curse we can find to subvert it? _Alchemy_! Not even Hydra was dumb enough to use that.”

“Okay, I get that,” Steve allows, “but why don’t you—”

“Secondly,” Bucky continues, as if Steve hadn’t even spoken, “who do you suggest be the host, huh? What poor bastard is going to willingly sacrifice their body to be the host of all this bullshit?” He gestures to his body with both hands, his expression downright livid.

Well, the answer to that question is easy.

“Me,” Steve says.

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

“I think the fuck not,” Bucky says, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. “I think the _fuck_ not.”

“Bucky, come on,” Steve says. He leans forward, trying to convey to him how important this is with his expression since his words don’t seem to be working. “It’s not an awful idea.”

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m going to let you do that,” Bucky says softly. He shakes his head, breaking eye contact to look at the floor.

“Am I though?” Steve asks. He takes a step closer to Bucky, who doesn’t back away, thankfully. He tries a different tactic. “You need to go after Rumlow. You can’t do that when he’s got the Siren Song on you. He’ll take you away.”

Bucky’s shoulders relax a fraction—that must hold some truth for him. “Steve…” he murmurs, and he sounds imploring, gray eyes shining. “There has to be another way.”

“I don’t know if there  _i_ _s_ ,” Steve says. He’s getting desperate—he just wants Bucky to _understand_. “Bucky, this might be our best bet.”

But the other man doesn’t answer, just continues staring at that same spot on the floor. Steve understands his reservations. It’s not something that should be taken lightly, not at all. But Steve is willing to make this sacrifice. And who’s not to say that the spell can be transferred to another person afterward? It doesn’t have to be permanent, right? Of course, finding another host will be difficult. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

“Look, Bucky,” Steve says, making his voice as gentle as possible, “we’ve searched every book possible. All of them. We’ve done our research, and this is the best of our options.”

“Sum it up for me,” Bucky grits, and he’s _seething_ —Steve could probably fry an egg on the guy’s head, he’s so mad.

Steve doesn’t back down; instead, he looks into Bucky’s eyes. “Option one,” he says, “we kill Rumlow, and put the case in jeopardy, and therefore the kids’ safety, _and_ yours.” Bucky’s jaw clenches tighter at that—Steve’s worried he’s going to crack a tooth—but it seems the idea of putting the kids in danger strikes a chord within him.

“Option two,” he continues, “we use this spell, you use me as the host, and you go off and get Rumlow and win the case and everyone is fine with that.”

“And you _inherit my fucking curse_ , don’t forget that part,” Bucky interjects. Steve frowns, pleading, but Bucky says, “Go on—what’s the last option?”

“We do nothing. We wait here do nothing. Or, better yet, you go after Rumlow while you still have the curse and you’re back in the same position you were in before and nothing gets resolved.”

Steve drops his head for a brief second, trying as hard as he can to collect himself so he doesn’t get angry before lifting his gaze back up to look at Bucky.

“So what’s it going to be?” he asks.

“I’m not doing it, Steve,” Bucky says firmly.

Understand this: Steve knows Bucky, thinks Bucky is very smart and, most times, very rational. Many times, Steve trusts that Bucky is making the right decision for himself.

“Bucky, please…”

“I can’t ask that of you, Steve!”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering!” Steve exclaims. He puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders like he’s going to shake some sense into him. He doesn’t, though, just plants his palms firmly atop his collarbones, fingers gentle in their grip. “Bucky, I want you to have this. I want you to—to do what it is that you want. I want you to take down Rumlow, and I want you to be free of his control forever, and I want you to not have to run from the government.” He takes a deep breath and says, softly, “So please, let me do this for you.”

Bucky shakes his head minutely. “I can’t,” he croaks. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?” Steve asks, _pleads_.

Bucky just shakes his head wordlessly, leans out of Steve’s grip, and exits the room.

Steve drops his hands to his sides and wonders vaguely when Bucky’s going to let himself catch a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked the chapter! If you guys want, go ahead and follow my [marvel blog](http://notbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. I'd love to talk to you guys. <3


	11. Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall, sorry for the long wait in getting this chapter. for some reason like a month ago i started thinking that this series was dumb and that no one wanted to read it and i had a bought of writer's block/loss of motivation but now im back. 
> 
> we're gonna visit some outside POVs just a little, because i really wanted to explore their povs and, like... i say so. hopefully you guys like this chapter! we're getting close to the end (kind of), so strap yourselves in kids. ive set the chapter count, tentatively, at 19. i think that'll cover everything! wooooo

###### STEVE

Steve has a notebook open on his desk, and he can’t, for the life of him, write down any words.

His mind is racing, trying to figure out something he could possibly do—trying to figure out if there’s a situation in which they all win. A plan. Anything.

An hour ago, he’d been full of ideas—the words had blossomed forth, a cornucopia of schemes and theories. But the more he wrote, the more he realized that each plan was full of holes and unnecessary risks. Now he sits, staring at the next page, his tank empty, and no closer to finding a solution to his predicament.

He’s here because he and Bucky had gotten into it again the night before; Steve wanted to know why Bucky had to be the one to apprehend Rumlow, and Bucky wanted to be stubborn and not try the alchemic spell that Steve had found the week prior. He wanted a _plan_ , a solid step-by-step. But Bucky was acting strangely, his words cryptic and vague. He was still very much against Nat going in by herself or with a team. He wanted to handle it himself.

“You’re risking so much,” Steve told him, throwing his hands out angrily. “Natasha is perfectly capable of taking Rumlow in.”

“You don’t get it,” Bucky snapped. “Aren’t you seeing how strange this all sounds?”

Steve narrowed his eyes at him. “How strange _what_ all sounds?”

Bucky had spread his arms in a very vague and general gesture, as if to say, _You know, all of it?_

When he wouldn’t elaborate, Steve had rolled his eyes, which just served to piss Bucky off even more. They had both gone to bed angry, and this morning they didn’t speak a word to each other. All day, the most he’d gotten out of Bucky were a few monosyllabic answers and a couple grunts.

So Steve has been trying to figure out a workaround to the spell, trying to figure out if perhaps there’s a way for them to get rid of Bucky’s curse in a way that doesn’t require him to give it to someone else. So far, there is absolutely nothing. Alchemy is all about balance and exchange—you can’t get something for nothing. As Steve can see now, it’s not so much that Bucky is throwing his curse away into another body. No, the two partners are _exchanging_ energy—Bucky, giving his curse, and Steve, giving his clean, pure energy.

Alchemy fucking sucks.

A knock on the door makes him jump. He’s been so deep in thought that he didn’t realize how late it was getting—it’s almost time for dinner, and he hasn’t even started to make it. As he didn’t make breakfast this morning, he figures he shouldn’t skimp out again. He looks at his notebook, which is still decidedly blank, sighs, and gets up to answer the door.

Tugging his shirt down where it rides up on his stomach, the knock on the door comes again. He gets to the door and opens it, revealing Kate, standing in her pajamas.

“Oh,” Steve says. Of all the people to visit him, Kate was the least expected. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Her hair is messy, in a lopsided bun, a couple of strands sticking out every which way. She radiates a nervous energy, shifting on her feet. Her white cane is tucked under one elbow.

“Can I… come in?” she asks haltingly.

“Sure,” Steve says, stepping aside. She makes her way in slowly, tapping her cane to indicate her surroundings. Her steps are hesitant like she’s not sure she’s welcome, but then makes her way in and feels around for the door handle, pulling the door shut once she finds it. She plops down unceremoniously into a chair that Steve guides her to, a huge sigh escaping.

Steve stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure what happens next.

“Uh—” he starts, just as Kate goes to say, “So—”

“You—go ahead,” Steve offers.

Her fingers are nervously twisting into the hem of her shirt. “Do you… mind if I talk to you about something?” she asks. “Um, Wanda’s kind of busy and I didn’t really want to bother Bucky but you didn’t seem like… I mean, I can come back if you’re busy—”

“Yes, you can talk to me,” Steve interrupts before she can start really rambling. He sits down in the bed, directly across from her. “What’s going on?”

“It’s, ah, kind of personal,” she says, blushing. “It’s just, something happened with America and I would really like some… advice.”

Alright. Steve can already see where this is heading. He can see that she’s just as uncomfortable as he feels, but he wants her to be able to talk to him.

“Okay,” he says, settling onto his bed with a sigh. He knows this is going to take a while—may as well get comfortable. “Start from the beginning.”

 

######  **KATE**

To be fair, Kate hadn’t planned on kissing her.

It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing because Kate was never really that kind of person—she didn’t make grand romantic gestures, she didn’t woo her potential lovers, and she certainly didn't court anybody.

So kissing America was, essentially, an accident. Or, at least that’s what she tells herself.

They do this thing, okay. And Kate knows that it’s kind of cheesy and dumb, but America is her best friend—regardless of whether or not she kissed her, mind you. They listen to the same audiobook, or sometimes a podcast, while sharing a pair of earbuds, lying on the floor of the living room.

Kate’s probably had a crush on America for, like… a while. Probably since they started living here. When everyone was still struggling with the constant onslaught of unwanted visions of the future, she would stay awake with America until late into the night, chattering away about nothing and everything, working through their visions together and talking everything out. They were still so unsure about what they were doing there, if they were really safe or if everything would go horribly wrong. She loved the way America talked, with her honey-toned voice and slight southwestern accent. She made everything sound like it was going to be okay. She was the only one who could make Kate believe that.

And America didn’t exactly make it easy for her, okay. Every time Kate thought that maybe she could get over it, this little infatuation that Kate has with her, America would lay her head in Kate’s lap or lean against her shoulder. It’s something that best friends do, and Kate felt like absolute shit for not pushing her away, for coveting those small touches and embraces. Because Kate knew those actions meant something different to her than they did to America—they meant so much more.

Anyway. Last night, they were in the living room.

They spend a lot of their time there—the living room is an inviting, well-used room in the house; it’s often the area that Steve uses to read or the place where Peter makes everyone go when he wants to hang out. Bucky uses it, primarily, to nap during the day, usually in familiar form, though he’d deny it profusely if anyone ever brought it up. Wanda uses it to write down spells and enchantments she wants to try, going through the recipe books and dog-earring the pages that she wants to use, though she doesn’t cook for herself that often.

And Kate and America use it to listen to their things together. Really, it’s a very versatile room.

It was getting late, but Kate wasn’t really tired or anything. She couldn’t even blame her actions on lack of sleep, because she was wide awake. Kate rested her chin on her folded palms, content to just listen and be near.

They don’t even use the couches—they just lie on the floor and listen to the voice of whoever or whatever they’re listening to that day—sometimes it’s a book, sometimes it’s a podcast, sometimes Kate doesn’t even pay close enough attention to know what’s what.

They were listening to—something. Kate couldn’t tell you, for the life of her, what it was. She thinks it was a podcast, but she has no idea which one.

America commented on something the voice in their headphones said—she can’t remember her exact words, but it made Kate laugh so hard that she curled up and rolled over onto her side, clutching her stomach. And then America joined in—and America’s laugh is kind of ridiculous, because it’s so loud and silly and contagious, and soon Kate was laughing until she was breathless.

When they were done laughing—and it took a couple of tries, bear in mind—Kate found herself a lot closer to America than they had been previously. Where before there was at least a foot between them before, now there were mere _inches_.

America was. Really close. She could feel America’s breath on her face. Her senses, which were already heightened, were going _wild._

Her mind was so calm, too calm to be making such a big decision. But she can remember how she reached out her hand to rest on the side of America’s face, how the girl stilled beneath her fingertips. Kate skimmed her thumb down America’s face, over her lips, and hoped she wouldn’t miss.

Kate pitched forward and kissed her.

It was quick. Like, less than a second.

America was completely still. Her breathing changed, her heart rate picked up. Before America could do anything—push her away, or kiss back, even—Kate had already thrown herself away from her, mind racing and trying to figure out why the hell she had just done that.

“I, uh—” Kate said, with extreme eloquence and smoothness.

America was silent, not giving Kate anything. She didn’t know what to do—it’s not like she did this kind of stuff very often. After a few seconds of complete silence, Kate started to doubt herself. She made a mistake. She’d misread the signals and made things weird.

“I’m gonna… go upstairs,” America said. Her tone betrayed nothing. Even with her heightened senses, Kate couldn’t figure out what was happening.

“Oh,” Kate breathed. That’s probably the sound all hearts made when they broke— _oh._ “Okay.”

 

######  **STEVE**

“Uh,” Steve says. “Wow.”

That’s not really the kind of thing that he was expecting. Sure, he had noticed that Kate and America hadn’t sat next to each other this morning for breakfast, but he didn’t realize that this is what had transpired. Kate and America have had disagreements before—living in such close quarters, it’s almost impossible to get along a hundred percent of the time. But he hadn’t thought that this would happen, and he definitely hadn’t thought that Kate would come to him about it.

“What do you want to do?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, and she looks absolutely miserable. “I feel like I just ruined everything.”

“Hey, no,” Steve says. He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. “You didn’t ruin everything. “Have you guys talked about it?”

“No,” Kate says. “Well, kind of,” she amends.

Steve frowns. “You’re not going to get through any of this unless you guys talk to each other. Trust me. Communication is the only way to go about this.”

Kate sighs. “That’s what I thought you were going to say,” she mumbles. “Okay, fine. I’ll talk to her.”

“Tonight, preferably.”

“Tonight?!” she exclaims. “You’re crazy. Tomorrow. At the earliest.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Just get it done. If you let everything sit like this, it’s just going to get worse. Trust me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she gripes. She gets up, then pauses. “I—I mean, I talked to America this morning. And I’m… I’m just worried. That I ruined everything.”

“Kate,” he says. “I can’t fix this for you.”

She presses her lips into a sharp line and says, “Okay. Yeah. You’re right.”

+++

It’s only a few hours later that Steve finds himself downstairs. It’s nearing 11 PM—he’s just trying to finish up this last potion for the night—the cure-all, the one he used the night Bucky came up to the cabin. He’s down in the storage room, because that’s where a lot of the ingredients are, and it’s also the place where the least damage will be done if he fucks up.

Steve had managed to whip up a quick dinner before anyone had started to complain too much. Well, Peter had complained that he was a growing boy who needed to stick to a strict diet and eating schedule, but Steve knew he was only teasing. Dinner was another stiff affair, with the drama between Kate and America happening—the latter didn’t even show up to dinner, which seemed to bother Kate, who mostly pushed her food around her plate more than eat it. Bucky was quiet but polite when Steve tried to talk to him, which was an improvement. Steve would have to talk to him tonight or tomorrow, try to see if they could get past this stalemate.

Anyway, there’s a shadow that he can see below the crack of the storage room door, shifting from foot to foot. He’s wondering when people are going to stop needing him in the middle of the night, and just talk to him during the day like normal people.

The potion is looking good now—it’s a deep green, almost a forest green, when he turns the heat to low and lets it simmer. It needs to be a bit bluer in hue, so he decides he hasn’t cooked it long enough. The timing couldn’t be more perfect, though—it takes a few moments for the person outside the door to knock, but Steve is already up when they do. He opens the door.

“America,” he says, kind of surprised. He’d been expecting Bucky—he’s usually the culprit when it comes to late-night meetings and talks. Immediately, he’s worried. “What’s going on? Are you alright? Why weren’t you at dinner? I can probably whip something up if you’re hungry—”

Her voice is small and raw-sounding when she speaks, cutting him off before he can really start rambling. “Can we talk?” she asks.

Still surprised, Steve allows her to come in.

“Kate kissed me,” America says.

He tries really hard to be surprised. Kate entrusted him to say nothing of their conversation earlier, and he will not betray her. “Oh. Wow,” he says, probably sounding about as interested as a child would be hearing about the stock market. “She _did,_ huh.”

“Yeah,” America says. Shifting from foot to foot, she looks incredibly nervous and uncomfortable. Steve can’t really blame her.

“Do you want to…” Steve takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for what he’s about to do, “… talk about it?”

“Yeah,” she says, clearly relieved that she didn’t have to ask for it herself. “That would be nice.”

 

######  **AMERICA**

America felt weird the morning after Kate kissed her. Their whole dynamic had shifted, and America didn’t know exactly what to do.

She couldn’t help but feel a little stab of betrayal when Kate went and sat next to Peter. Usually, they would sit next to each other so they could talk easier, but it seemed different today. Everything seemed a little tilted that morning—Bucky and Steve weren’t talking to each other, seemingly in their own little worlds. Steve also didn’t cook them breakfast as he usually did, instead telling everyone to get their own cereal. America was a little disappointed at that, and it was just another damn thing to sour her mood.

America heard the last person enter the dining room, their steps muffled against the carpet.

“Good morning,” Wanda said, sitting down into the empty seat next to America after a moment of hesitation. No doubt she noticed the change in seating.

“Is it?” Kate asked, deadpan and sarcastic.

America heard Peter chuckle a little bit at that, despite probably being dead tired. Traitor.

She poured herself a bowl of cereal. Steve never gets the super sugary stuff, so today she had corn flakes. They were tasteless and mushy, and she mostly just pushed them around her bowl for 15 minutes rather than actually eat them. No one talked, probably confused by the switch in seating, sensing something was wrong but not wanting to comment on it.

Chalking it up to the worst, most awkward breakfast in the entire world, America was just about to get up when Kate said, “Can I be done?”

There was a heavy silence after that, but eventually, Steve said, “Yeah. ‘Course. You can leave whenever you want, you don’t have to ask permission.”

“Thanks,” she said. America heard her chair moving through the carpet as she got up. Once she’d exited the room, America cleared her throat.

“Yeah, I’m done, too,” she said, pushing her chair out and getting up. She rushed out of the room so quickly that she left her bowl on the table, something that she knew Bucky would chew her out for later.

She went up the stairs, knowing that that was probably where Kate would be, and nearly ran over the girl in question in her haste to get down the hallway to their shared bedroom.

“Kate,” America said in breathless surprise.

“Hey,” Kate said, sounding wary.

Ignoring her bleak tone, America barrelled on. “I needed to talk to you,” she said.

“Oh,” Kate said. America heard her shuffle before she finally agreed, “Uh, yeah. What do you need?”

“I—” America faltered. She didn’t… exactly know what she wanted to say. Mostly, she wanted Kate to understand what her reasoning was, but even she was confused about what she wanted.

“I… I want you to understand… why I did what I did. Last night.”

Kate was quiet, and then said, “Okay.”

Unsure, America continued, “I don’t want you to feel bad.” She already knew that she was fucking this up. As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she could tell that Kate was getting defensive. “I—I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to, like, hurt your feelings or anything. It’s not—it’s not that I didn’t want you to do it. It’s just. _God_ ,” she cursed. She ran a hand through her curly, knotty hair. “I’m doing this all wrong.”

Kate’s voice was very nearly accusatory when she replied, “What do you _mean_ , it’s not that you didn’t want me to do it?”

America felt herself stiffen; she was messing this up. She just wanted to make it better but it was already so messy. “I meant—I meant that it’s okay that you kissed me. It’s just that… I can’t… _do_ relationships. I’m sorry, it’s just really complicated.”

When Kate spoke again, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Okay. I get it,” she said.

Oh, God. America panicked. “It’s just—it’s not  _you_ , okay? It’s nothing _you_ did, _I’m_ just—”

“I told you that I _get it_.” Kate sounded dangerously close to snapping at her, and America _really_ didn’t want to get into shouting match. That would have just been the perfect way to end this whole thing.

“Really?” America replied, growing defensive as well. “Then why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m  _not_ ,” she insisted when America snorted derisively. Her voice got quiet, nearly a mumble, “I’m mad at myself. For ruining everything.”

America was shocked at her response, barely able to manage a choked-off, “What?”

“Should have just kept to myself. Stupid, stupid.” The way she said it was like she was mostly talking to herself rather than America, and that kind of scared her. She didn’t want Kate thinking that about herself; whether or not this ever worked out, Kate was  _not_ stupid for taking the risk—America would never hold it against her. To be truthful, America  _wanted_ Kate to… you know. It was just… really complicated.

“Kate…” America trailed off, and she wanted so desperately to touch her, to comfort her, but she knew how much that would undermine everything that she had said. She reached out and then aborted the movement, dropping her hand back to her side. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“Yeah?” she asked, but she didn’t sound even a little convinced. “You promise?”

“I promise.” America stepped just a little closer. She wanted Kate to understand.

“Kate, you’re my best friend. Nothing could ruin this,” she said softly. She put as much meaning behind her words as she possibly could, but it still felt like it wasn’t enough. The deed was done—Kate’s heart was already bruised. Broken, even. Nothing America said could put it back together.

“Right,” Kate said. “I’m gonna go shooting.”

America shifted from foot to foot. “You… want me to come with?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Kate said, excusing herself. “I’ll see you later.”

America just stood there, frozen, while Kate retreated downstairs, feeling like everything had changed even though she did absolutely nothing.

 

######  **STEVE**

There’s a stiff silence.

“And?” Steve prompts.

“And? That’s it,” she says with a sweep of her palm.

“Oh,” Steve says, leaning back a little. “Okay. So what now?”

“I’m just…” America groans loudly, scrubbing her hands over her face. “And I’m not _ready_ for a relationship. Because—well, you know why.”

Steve thinks back to that first deep conversation that he and America had, where she told him about how she was essentially kidnapped and taken to Hydra by a supposed friend of hers, giving her deep trust issues and the like.

“Yeah,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He should have figured something like this would happen sooner or later. Kate and America have been dancing around this _thing_ since they got here, and it was wishful thinking to hope that they’d sort it out on their own.

They’re  _kids_. Of course, they’re going to have feelings and drama and make everything out to be the biggest deals of their entire lives.

Except, this kind of _is_ a big deal. Kate and America do pretty much everything together—if they get into a fight and end up not liking each other anymore, that could affect the whole group. They kind of have to live with each other until this all blows over, however long that may be.

Steve does _not_ want to deal with two teenagers who don’t like each other living under the same roof. The thought alone makes him want to run and hide.

“What if….” She swallows, looking unsure and afraid. America is tough, and she’s been through a lot, and he’s sure not a lot of things really scare her. This, however, has her looking _terrified_. “What if I lose her?”

Steve buries his head in his hands for a brief second before lifting his face up. “I—okay, listen. I’m gonna tell you something.”

She looks apprehensive, but eventually says, wary, “Okay.”

“You’re a teenager,” he says. “Gonna be an adult.”

Her eyebrows pull in. “I—I mean, yeah.”

“I can’t make your decisions for you,” he adds.

“Yeah,” she repeats, frowning. “Steve, _where_ are you going with this?”

“What I mean is,” he continues with a sigh, “I can’t help you. I can tell you about what’s worked in my life, but I’m not you. And eventually, you’re going to have to make your _own_ mistakes.”

America drops her head, rubbing the back of her neck with one hand. She mumbles something in response that he doesn’t quite catch.

“You understand?” he questions.

“Yeah,” she says, sounding snippy. “I understand.”

Steve looks at her, how pitiful and lost she looks, like a child who’s lost their mother in the grocery store. He rubs his eyes and turns back to his potion. It’s nearly done—just needs to simmer a little longer and then he can take it off the heat.

“What I _can_ tell you,” he says, turning around to stir the cauldron a little, “is that, uh,” he smiles a little to himself, sardonically, “whatever hold-up you have with her? It’s not about trust. You already trust her. That’s pretty obvious.” When she opens her mouth to protest, Steve rushes to say, “C’mon, America. Would you sleep in the same room as somebody you don’t trust?”

Her mouth clicks shut, and Steve counts that as a win.

He smiles for real when he concludes, “Whatever is holding you back from this, _you_ need to figure it out. Because I _know_ you like her. You told me yourself. And…” He can’t believe he’s giving dating advice to a teenager, but _here he fucking is_ , “probably give her space right now. But after that, _talk_ to her. Because if you let this lie the way it is now, you’re going to lose her friendship, too, not just… you know, all that.”

When he turns around to look at her, she lifts her head. She looks, among other things, to be on the brink of tears. Steve feels bad because he knows that it’s always difficult to have your fears pointed out to you, out loud. This must be an incredibly stressful situation for her.

But he can read her face like a book. The nervous energy is so thick around her that he could cut through it with a knife. He _knows_ how she feels, he _knows_ her fears and her actions, because he’d done the same thing to Bucky when they’d first started living together.

He gets up from where he’s leaning against the table and goes to lay a hand on her shoulder, wanting to comfort her. “America…” he starts, but he’s interrupted when she grabs his hand and pulls him into a hug. She wraps her arms tightly around his middle while he stands there, shocked. Before long, though, he hugs back, his heart full.

She buries her face into his shirt. He can’t do much else besides stand there and hug back, but it feels significant.

“You’re right,” America mumbles, her words slightly muffled by his shirt. “I know you’re right. I just—I’m so scared.” She pulls away and swipes at her eyes, clearing away some stray tears. “Because if I date her and screw it up, I’ll lose her.” Her face crumples when she goes on, “But if I don’t do anything now, I’ll lose her, too. And I’m just—” She sniffles, and Steve moves to find her a tissue.

“I understand,” Steve says, handing her a Kleenex. “I do. But, let me just say one thing.” America nods, dabbing at her eyes with the napkin, and he continues, “Don’t… be like me.”

America, seemingly shocked by this advice, huffs a wet laugh. “What? What do you mean?”

Steve smiles a bit as well, but he knows he has to be serious. “Don’t be like me,” he repeats. “Don’t… don’t wait and almost miss your chance. Don’t run away from it just because you’ve been hurt in the past. Because it’s not fair to the other person. And… they won’t wait forever. And it’s not their fault if they move on without you.”

He bows his head, remembering how he’d (futilely) tried to keep some distance between him and Bucky at the beginning of their relationship. He wouldn’t Bond with him, ran away from a training session where they’d gotten dangerously close to each other. And not to mention the times Bucky mentioned that he wanted to learn potions and spells. Steve had resisted all of those at first, because while he was slightly afraid that Bucky wasn’t going to be capable (which was silly, looking back on it now—Bucky was about as good a witch as Steve was), he was more afraid of having to spend more time with him in such close quarters, when he was already having trouble handling himself.

And then there was Natasha. She had told Steve herself that she wasn’t big on romantic partners, but that didn’t stop him from being jealous of her and Bucky’s easy relationship. They’d become fast friends, and Steve could tell that Bucky respected and admired her from the second they’d been introduced.

Of course, Bucky didn’t ever see Natasha like that. It was his own insecurities, his own anger, making him read into something that was never there.

But at the end of the day, Steve couldn’t have blamed anyone but himself. He was the one who pushed Bucky away. He was the one who kept his distance. You can’t treat someone like crap and expect them to keep coming back for more. Eventually, they’ll get tired of it.

Back in the present, America is very quiet. The humor is gone from her face. She probably wasn’t expecting Steve to give away so much personal information, to bear his heart like he just had. She doesn’t say anything about it, though—doesn’t judge him. She just says, “I won’t,” in a warbling tone, like there was something in her throat. She leaves shortly after, declaring that she’s going upstairs to eat tonight’s leftovers.

He turns back to his potion. It’s the perfect shade of turquoise blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a reminder that this is essentially a first draft so not everything is going to be perfect. i may go back and change things as my ideas change and the story develops. anyway i hope you guys liked everything! idk when the next chapter will be out exactly since ive changed my outline a little bit.


	12. Benign / Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! We're going to get a little from Peter's POV now. :^) This chapter is a little bit shorter than the last one, but I finished it quickly! And on time! So we're going to celebrate that instead <3

###### PETER

Peter would be the first to admit that this isn’t exactly how he thought things would go.

When he saw the future in his head, he saw a thousand different possibilities. There were futures where he was happy, a few where he was sad, most of them where he was kind of screwed-up beyond recognition. He guessed that was kind of how it was, growing up the way he did. You don’t go through hell and come out without a few burns.

He thought things were as bad as they could get, but this… well, it’s difficult. But it’s not awful. Not compared to some of his visions.

When he sees the future, it’s kind of hard to explain. It’s not really—seeing. It’s more like… sensing. It’s feeling the split of timelines, one breaking off from another. Every time something changes, he feels the ground shift beneath his feet. He feels an alternate universe form for things that shouldn’t matter—a universe where Steve used two lumps of sugar in his coffee instead of one. Where Bucky put his hair in a bun instead of leaving it down.

Where he’s able to finally settle on a familiar form already.

Where he’s still with his Aunt May, instead of in the cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Where his Uncle Ben is still alive.

He shakes the thoughts away as he hears someone approaching. From the sound of their footfalls, he guesses that it’s Bucky, and he’s proved right when he hears a gravelly, yet soft voice ask, “You doing alright there?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, trying to inject as much cheer into his voice as he possibly could. “I’m good.”

But he’s not good, and he can tell Bucky knows that. Bucky’s really good at that sort of thing, telling when someone’s lying to him. Peter’s tried to do it a few times but he can never get away with it.

Peter gets a flash of several potential futures; one where Bucky leaves him to sulk, turning around and going back into the house, allowing Peter to stew in his bad mood, and another where he settles down next to him, plus a thousand other possibilities. Those two, however, are the ones that seem to pop up the most, with several minor differences—like, Bucky puts his hair up a few seconds afterward or leaves it down, he lays down on his back or remains sitting up.

“So,” Bucky says, and Peter hears some shuffling, and suddenly all the visions dim as Bucky sits down next to him. “What’s on your mind?”

Peter bows his head, twiddling his thumbs as he thinks. To be honest, _his_ life is pretty good, in general. It’s just that, things are strange right now in the cabin. Long weeks of bliss and boredom have given way to high tensions and quiet meals. No one will tell Peter what’s happening, exactly, and one can only pick up so much information from eavesdropping. Bucky and Steve are fairly difficult to get the drop on, and America and Kate have said barely two words to each other the entire time they’ve been in this weird funk. Can’t eavesdrop if no one’s saying anything.

The sour mood of the group was bound to affect Peter sooner or later—he’s pretty susceptible to the emotions of others, and it’s hard to stay cheerful and optimistic in a house full of angsty people.

Plus, he still hasn’t settled on his familiar form. He’s not stupid—while Steve will tell him there’s nothing to worry about, he knows that he’s behind. He’s taking a long time to finally settle, and he doesn’t want to cause alarm but he’s sure that something isn’t right.

“I don’t really know,” he says. “There’s just… a lot on my mind, I guess.”

“Like what?” Bucky asks.

Peter doesn’t really know how to put it in words—how he’s feeling. He struggles to relay it, like he’s reaching out with his hand to grasp the words but closing his hand around only air and cobwebs.

“It’s just weird,” he manages. “At home, I was always the freak, you know? Like, I was one of the only Seers in my school, and then I’m a familiar on top of that… Around them, I was always the weirdo. But here, I’m not weird enough.”

He can hear the smile in Bucky’s voice when he says, “Is that a bad thing?”

“I mean—” He frowns, trying to find the right way to say it. “No, but, I just… I don’t know. I feel like no matter where I am, I’m never going to fit in. I’m always going to be that kid, you know? The extra wheel.”

“You feel… out of place?” Bucky asks.

“I guess.” But it’s more than that. He feels… like the lowest common denominator. He feels like the standard to which all the other group members build and improve upon. Like the weakest, most useless member.

“Great,” Bucky says. “I do, too.”

Peter huffs. “You?”

That’s absurd. _Bucky_? Feeling out of place here? As if. He’s the greatest tying link that the group possesses—he’s been there throughout everyone’s journey, just about—his arrival at the cabin made the group feel more like a family rather than a bunch of ragtag ex-Hydra rejects, plus Steve.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Me.”

Peter shakes his head. “Why?”

He hesitates for barely a second before he decides to speak. “You guys are so comfortable around each other,” Bucky says with a touch of sadness. “When I show up, everyone gets all quiet. I feel like people are waiting for me to turn back into the Soldier on them.”

Peter’s eyebrows pull together. “That’s not  _true_ ,” he says. “We’re just—we’re just intimidated because of the whole thing with—” He shuts his mouth before he can say anything incriminating. But it’s too late.

“The whole thing with…?” Bucky prompts, but Peter just shakes his head. Nope, nuh-uh. “With… Steve?”

_Damn_. “No,” Peter says, too quickly, and Bucky laughs. His face is hot and he wished that the earth would just open up and swallow him already.

Bucky sighs, and Peter can imagine him smiling up at the sky, dark hair tucked behind his ears, closing his eyes as he soaked up the Rocky Mountain sunshine, or maybe that’s a vision of the future. Who knows.

“You two seem…” He searches for the right word and settles on, “…close.”

Bucky laughs again. “You could say that.”

They’re quiet for a moment. The mountains are quiet, and for that reason, Peter isn’t sure how much he likes them. In Queens, there was noise nearly constantly. It felt like a tangible thing, like something that he could grasp and hold onto like a thread. In the mountains, the noises are different—gone is the groan and squeak of moving cars, the chatter of people and the hum of the city. Instead, there’s the groan of tall, swaying trees, the chatter of squirrels and chipmunks, and the hum of absolute darkness when the sun goes down. Peter isn’t used to the oppressive darkness that comes with sunsets in the mountains, and while he’s sure that some people like it, Peter misses his home. He misses Queens, and his Aunt May, and his friends at school—Ned, MJ, the rest of his decathlon team.

“You know,” Bucky says, “Steve was the one who taught me how to turn into my familiar form.”

Peter cocks his head, trying to make sure he heard correctly. “Really? Steve?”

“Yep,” Bucky says. “I was repressing that shit so hard. I hated being a familiar.”

“What? Why?” While Peter would say that it’s definitely harder being a familiar than a witch, or being a witch than a regular human, he loves being a familiar. His abilities make him happy, and though he can’t control them well, he wouldn’t ever trade them.

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. “You know how people are.” He sniffs. “They think we can’t take care of ourselves, that we need to be Bonded to a witch to be worth anything. I know that’s not true, now. But before, I didn’t want anyone to know.”

Peter is amazed at this. “Wow,” he says. “How did… what did he teach you that helped?”

“Well…” Bucky takes a breath as he starts to count off a number of things—what position he sat in, how he cleared his mind beforehand, how he was able to concentrate, how he tried not to force himself into doing it because that just made it more difficult. Peter listens intently, filing away all the points that Bucky makes, intending to use them the second he is able.

“And, Peter…” Bucky says, sounding vaguely amused, “it’s okay if you’re really weird or only kind of weird or not weird at all. It doesn’t matter, because you’re you. We all love you, Pete. That’s family for you. You don’t need to have special powers for you to fit in with us. We love you anyway.

“Besides,” he continues, “there are things that we all have that could make us feel like outsiders to each other. I was the Soldier, you know, brainwashed and turned into a weapon. You might not have the special abilities like everyone else, but Steve is also the only one here who wasn’t under Hydra control. And Kate, she’s still trying to work through her heightened senses, even though you guys are mostly over that. And America still has a lot of trust issues, no matter what she says. And Wanda is the only one of you Diviners who was self-taught. She wasn’t born with the ability like you guys.”

Peter listens, feeling slightly cowed. He never thought about it that way—that they all had things that made them different from each other. For the longest time, it felt like Peter versus the rest of them, like he was the most different out of all of them. But, really, it seems like they’re all just a little different from each other.

Huh.

Peter sits in stunned silence as Bucky goes into the house, the screen door squeaking shut with a crash.

He swipes his hand across his face, fighting off the tears quickly, before he pulls his legs up from where they dangle off the porch, sitting in the position Bucky told him about, getting ready to work some magic.

 

###### BUCKY

Bucky goes into the house, letting the screen door shut by itself. But he doesn’t move—instead, he waits, watching Peter as he sits with his legs criss-crossed, sitting up straight, taking deep, even breaths.

For a moment, nothing happens. Bucky’s about to turn away when Peter’s form flickers, turning into… something… back to a human. Bucky waits, completely still, and it happens again—this time, Peter stays turned long enough that Bucky can see what it is—a dog, with long, golden hair, a black nose, and shaggy tail. He smiles to himself as Peter flips back to a human, breathing hard from exertion and elation. The grin on his face is bright enough to leave spots in anyone’s vision.

Bucky turns and quietly shuts the inside door, leaving Peter to it.

+++

Natasha has given Bucky an ultimatum, and Bucky hates ultimatums.

“I’m sorry, James,” she says over the phone.

“It’s fine,” he grits, but it’s not fine. Obviously. “I still think this is a trap.”

“I’m well aware of what you think,” she says primly. “But even if this is a trap, doesn’t that mean you should stay away from it?”

“No,” Bucky says immediately, defensively. “I know how Rumlow thinks. It means I should be in there, so I can call his moves.”

“I can handle this well enough on my own,” she says. “Peggy’s going to be with me, Sam is going to be with me, Barton is going to be sniping, and Tony is going to be surveilling the entire operation. There’s no way we can lose.” She seems to hesitate before she says, “Honestly, Bucky. An extra body would just get in the way.”

Bucky squeezes the phone so tight that he’s afraid he might break it. “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he says. “Nat…”

“No,” she says harshly. “Bucky…” She sighs, and then says, “either fix your situation or stay in the safehouse. I’m not allowing you out unless you’re all clear. If I have to get Barton to hold you back, I will. Don’t doubt that.”

The thing is, Bucky didn’t doubt that she would do that. Natasha didn’t mince words or make empty promises. Bucky grit his teeth in frustration, because he knows that the only way that he could possibly get into Rumlow’s apartment to apprehend him is if he derailed Natasha’s operation, or went behind her back and showed up anyway. He couldn’t do that to her—he knows how hard she’s fought to be taken seriously, and he knows that she’s probably going to put safeguards in place to make sure that he doesn’t jeopardize her careful planning.

But it still hurts. Because he’s very, very sure that something is going to go wrong.

Call it a gut feeling, but Bucky can’t shake it. Maybe Rumlow was only his handler, but he knows that man is smart. He wouldn’t stay in one place so long, and, to be honest, he has every reason to want to come after Bucky. If nothing else, Rumlow is petty and vengeful. He would do things solely for revenge or self-preservation. He would pull Bucky down just because he could.

And, Bucky thinks, the man is not subtle at all. He’s not like Pierce—he doesn’t use veils or parties or money to get what he wants. He goes in. He goes in like a tank, with guns blazing, with knives, with fists, with fear. His idea of a distraction is throwing a grenade and running the other direction.

He’s not a witch or a familiar, but he is a magician. A human who controls magic. Bucky knows very well that Rumlow has control over magic.

God. He doesn’t know what to tell Steve, because he’s not sure if he would believe Bucky about it. Well, no, that’s not true. He’d believe Bucky if he thought it was a trap, but he would agree with Nat and say that she should go through with it anyway because he believes that she can get out of the other side unscathed anyway.

Bucky’s not so sure—not because he doubts Nat’s abilities, but because she hasn’t ever had to deal with a man like Rumlow before. He’s truly a wild card, something that is hard to predict unless you’ve had practice. Like Bucky has.

Sighing, Bucky gets up from where he sits on the bed. He either has to get rid of his curse in the next three days, or he has to sit out the operation.

Which would mean that he probably has to take Steve’s alchemic spell-potion-thing in order to get rid of his curse. Which he is _not_ going to take.

Or, he has to sit on standby while Nat and Steve’s four other friends walk into a potential trap.

Great.

He doesn’t want to take the potion. If not because it’s unfair to Steve, because it’s dangerous to them both.

Steve was upset with him about that, which, yeah.

Bucky avoided Steve if only to make sure that they didn’t talk about this, but to be honest, Bucky was getting desperate. There was a part of him that wanted to just let Natasha handle getting Rumlow because he knows that she’s very capable of making the arrest, but the other part of him was growing nervous. Rumlow wasn’t one to go down without a fight—he didn’t care what he took down with him. The longer Rumlow stayed at the location, the more Bucky was sure that something was not quite right. 

But that wasn't the only reason he avoided Steve. Of course.

“Why not,” he had asked Bucky. As if Bucky could give him an answer.

_Why not?_ he’d wanted to scream back. _Because, you big dummy, I’m in love with you!_

He looks down at his hands, metal and flesh. If he took the alchemic cleansing spell, would it take away his metal arm?

While it’s nice to have the use of both of his arms, he really… doesn’t care for the metal one. The first time he got it, it made him uneasy, like it had a mind of its own, like it wouldn’t obey what he asked of it. Like it was using him more than he was using it. It’s much stronger than his flesh arm, and while it’s handy (hah), he wouldn’t mind living without it.

He gets a sudden memory—of him, standing in the shower with… someone.

No, not just someone. Steve. Before his arm became metal. He stood in the shower with him, naked, while Steve, for some reason, was completely clothed, down to the socks on his feet. He had thrown an arm around Steve’s neck and they had just stood there together, while Bucky buried his head in Steve’s shoulder.

He grabs a pen from his desk and his notebook and starts to write down what he remembers. He works backward—Steve stood with him in the shower, before that, he had carried Bucky up to his room, because Bucky had… had fallen into a fucked-up potion, a concoction that had burned his skin like acid and paralyzed his arm… Bucky had been trying to make that thing that Steve needed, his Serum. Before that, Steve had been making it, but he needed to go upstairs, and Bucky had said he could handle it… They had both gone downstairs together, after having breakfast, where Bucky had… had stolen Steve’s mug and wouldn’t give it back to him unless—

“Oh,” Bucky says out loud, even though no one is around to hear him except for himself.

—unless Steve would kiss him, morning breath and all.

_You’re really something,_ Steve had said, cradling Bucky’s face in his palms.

_Something good, hopefully,_ Bucky had replied.

Bucky stops pulling on that thread, trying to process it all. It is—a lot. Not just because of the whole kiss thing, but because of the botched potion, the nerve damage, the shower afterward.

Peter had said that they seem close. Well, yeah. Apparently, there was a whole new layer to it that Bucky hadn’t even remembered.

He sits down at his desk and furiously starts to write. But as he goes, more memories of him and Steve together start to surface—their many arguments, dancing in the living room, a thousand easy kisses, their Bonding ceremony. _Bonding ceremony_. God. He flips back in his notebook, where he finds the first meeting he had with Steve. He doesn’t mention hearing Resonance with him, but suddenly Steve’s words make sense. Why else would Steve be so overjoyed, and past-Bucky be so frightened and abrasive?

Shit. It’s like he found a missing puzzle piece and finally the whole picture is coming together. He’s elated! He’s so excited! He’s—a little weird, because how is it that Bucky managed to fall in love with Steve _twice_? Two different Steves, even—one younger and more shut-off, one basically a father to these three kids, a little less harsh but with eyes holding all the sadness in the world.

The memories are still pouring out of him. He writes until his hand hurts, until his pen runs out of ink. Until his notebook runs out of room. And then he switches hands, and then he swaps out pens, and then he gets a new notebook, with smooth, crisp pages. A blank page awaiting his pen, awaiting his story, the very picture of possibility and potential.

He writes well into the night. He doesn’t want to leave out a single detail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i give peter a plotline about settling on his familiar form just so i could make a joke about him being a golden retriever???? maybe so
> 
> an actual photo of peter parker:  
> [](https://vgy.me/u/PKvonw)


	13. One

###### BUCKY

Bucky remembers a whole lot more than he thought he did.

The pages of his notebooks are filled with memories of Steve, yes, but after that, he began to remember his childhood better. The more he pulls on the thread, the more he regains of his past—the whole spool unraveling. He works backwards, from the last day he remembers to some of the first. From Steve, to his time on the streets, to his parents’ deaths, to his time in high school, to his childhood in Brooklyn.

He remembers it _all_. Details that were fuzzy before became crisp. Misremembered words and actions were made right. Bucky spent nearly the whole night trying to capture it all—the twenty-some years of his life before Hydra had taken it away.

And God, it feels so good. It feels good because they had taken pieces of _him_ away when they had taken his memory. Those pieces of him had shaped his personality, his existence, his very being. His memories aren’t just moments from the past, they are the only circumstances that make sense for him to be the exact way that he is. They are fragments of his soul. Take them away, and he doesn’t know himself.

Eventually, Bucky leans back and surveys his desk. There are two open notebooks in front of him, some pens and a pencil. Bucky has ink stains all over his hands and a couple on his shirt, but he doesn’t even care. Once he’s written down all he can remember, he closes the notebooks and stacks them neatly, one on top of the other, and tucks them away in one of the drawers of his desk. He clears away the clutter—some pencil eraser bits, a stray pen cap, and an empty cup, previously filled with water, that he got when he was thirsty, nearly an hour ago.

He gets up from his chair and looks at the bed, considering what he should do next. Part of him is tired and would like the sleep, but after the breakthrough that he’s had tonight, it seems a bit like a let-down. He can’t deny that he would like to tell someone about this, even if it doesn’t happen to be Steve.  

And, here, he’ll privately admit that he has had trouble sleeping the past few days. He usually sleeps in his familiar form, but it’s been getting harder to change into lately. A lot harder. In fact, the past few days, he just hasn’t tried at all; it takes so much of his energy that he’s afraid of it now.

It’s so difficult to sleep in his human form that he spends most of the night tossing and turning. So much time alone with his thoughts makes him think of things that he would rather keep untouched—the upcoming raid that Natasha has planned, the trial of Alexander Pierce also approaching, and, most unsavory, the nightmares of previous sleeps.

He makes the decision to go out to the hallway under the guise of returning the glass cup to the kitchen. In the hallway, he notices that there is light spilling from under the door of Wanda’s room, and wonders if perhaps he should tell her about his newly regained memories.

He goes to knock on the door, but hesitates. He doesn’t really want to bother Wanda, when she could possibly not want to be talked to right now. Not that she’s ever been closed-off or rude or anything, he just feels slightly guilty. Out of all of the people in the cabin here, Bucky admits to himself that he probably has the weakest relationship with Wanda. Not because he doesn’t like her, but they’ve just never really spent time together, one-on-one, unless you count the half hour that they spent together in her rock shop over a year ago.

He’s about to turn away and go downstairs when the door opens right in front of him. Bucky blinks in surprise, surprised to be staring at Kate’s unimpressed expression.

“Don’t just stand outside like a weirdo,” she deadpans. “Do you need something?”

He looks past her to see that Wanda is sitting on her bed, legs crossed, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and leggings. Her face is carefully blank, and Bucky gets the impression that they were just talking about something important but he interrupted them.

“No,” he says, shuffling backwards. “You can go back to… whatever.”

If possible, Kate manages to appear even more unimpressed.

“Wrong answer,” Wanda says from her bed. She motions for him to come inside. “What’s going on?”

Bucky frowns and runs a hand through his hair. He needs to wash it soon. “It’s just…” He sighs, knowing that once he says it, they’ll insist on seeing the conversation through. “I remembered something. Important.”

They both have the good grace to express their surprise, and when Kate ushers him inside, he goes without a fight.

“Alright,” Kate says, once he’s inside the room and situated in a chair. He’s never actually been inside Wanda’s room before, and he’s charmed a bit by what he sees—small baubles hanging from the ceiling, an open rock kit on the desk with several stones missing, and several small plants in the window. From the look of them, they seem to be mint, lavender, clover, and rosemary, as well as a succulent that Bucky can’t identify.

“Are these witch balls?” he asks, pointing to some of the ornaments hanging from the ceiling.

“Yes,” Wanda says. “For protection and warding off negative energy.”

“Huh,” Bucky says. Witch balls, while unfortunate in name, were pretty common practices in early witchcraft. A lot of cunning folk stopped using them, however, when they became identifying marks for magicians and familiars during the heyday of witch trials. Bucky’s never actually seen one before, besides from pictures or advertisements. “They’re pretty.”

“Thank you,” Wanda says. “Now stop trying to change the subject.”

He grins sheepishly at her and settles in to his chair a little more, chastened.

“What is it you remembered?” Wanda asks. She flips her hair over one shoulder and Bucky notices that she seems slightly more subdued that normal; he wonders if that has anything to do with him, or perhaps the conversation that she and Kate were having before this. 

Bucky tells them everything. He tells them the whole story: the day they first met, that one kiss the day he lost his arm, the night that he Bonded with Steve, how he was taken by Hydra, the day he was forced to sever his Bond. He looks at their facial expressions to gauge their reactions, but they don’t seem to be surprised when they learn about the previous nature of his and Steve’s relationship. 

“Can’t you at least act surprised?” Bucky complains.

Kate smiles and says, “You guys kind of act a certain way together. It wasn’t that hard to guess. I was more surprised to hear you guys Bonded. But, also, Peter told me you basically admitted it.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Goddamn,” he mutters. “He just said that we seem close and I said, ‘you could say something like that.’ How is that admitting anything?”

“You’re very stoic,” Wanda says. “You admitting anything means that it’s a bigger deal than you’re making it out to be.”

Bucky stares at Wanda, unimpressed. She smiles at him innocently, then snorts when she can’t keep a straight face. When Kate joins in, Bucky sighs as they both share a laugh at his expense.

When they’re done, the three of them lapse into silence. Bucky is thinking about getting up and leaving, but then Wanda speaks, throwing him off-guard: “So… what are you going to do now?”

He’s not sure how to answer that, because he himself is unsure. “I don’t know,” he admits. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you guys about.”

“Are you going to tell him that you remember?” Kate inquires.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I just don’t know how or when. And I want to, you know. Be with him again.” He looks up at them. “But I don’t want him to get some kind of wrong idea. I don’t want him to think that I’m just doing this because I think I _have_ to or something.”

“He _would_ be dumb enough to think something like that,” Kate agrees.

Wanda scratches her head. “Maybe don’t tell him yet, then? Or, even better, just tell him that you were in love with him before you got your memories back.”

“But would he believe me?” Bucky asks. That’s really where all his insecurities about this lied. Bucky loves Steve, but Steve has a hard time believing that he’s truly loved. He tends to think that he doesn’t deserve it, the dumbass.

But Wanda just smiles at him. “Bucky,” she says, “Steve trusts you more than anyone else in this world. If you ask him to believe you, he’ll believe you.”

He can’t really argue with that kind of logic, because, deep down, he knows it to be true. Steve is nothing if not loyal, so Bucky thanks them both for the advice and goes to leave. Kate tells Wanda that she’s going to exit as well, and gets up at the same time as he does.

When they leave Wanda’s room, closing the door behind them, he takes a quick look around and assumes everyone else—Peter, America, and Steve—are all asleep in their beds, as their rooms are dark and the house is silent.

While they’re both in the hallway, Bucky looks over to Kate. Unsure if his next question will be welcome, he hesitates slightly as he asks, “So… what were you and Wanda talking about?”

Kate doesn’t visibly react except for a small tightening in her jaw. “We were talking about America,” she admits, quietly. “I’m guessing you’ve noticed us being a little, like… weird.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He has noticed that they haven’t sat next to each other for meals, lately, and how they’ve avoided each other around the house the past few days. He wasn’t sure what had happened, and he didn’t want to ask Steve or anyone else but the girls involved about their business, just in case they didn’t want him to know. However, he’s been curious about the situation since that first morning he saw them sit apart.

“Well, the short version is that I kissed America and kind of… messed up our relationship for a hot second,” Kate says, and before Bucky can get a reply in, she rushes to add, “ _but_ , but, we’ve talked it out and we’ve decided to, like, try out a relationship. But like, go super duper slow. Like, snail’s pace. No, slower.”

Bucky, surprised, doesn’t really know what else to say besides, “Oh, cool. Good for you guys.”

Kate smiles sheepishly. “I… thanks.” She fiddles with her hands a little. “I was… kind of afraid. That I’d screwed everything up. But I didn’t, and I’m… I’m so happy.” She smiles a little more confidently at Bucky and continues, “I hope things work out for you and Steve. You guys deserve to be happy, too.”

Bucky feel tears pricking his eyes, and he blinks rapidly to make them go away. “I’m going to hug you,” he warns.

“Okay,” Kate says, her voice sounding slightly wobbly. Bucky wraps his arms briefly, but tightly, around her shoulders, and she hugs back. He feels like an idiot when he realizes he’s still holding the water glass that he took from his room.

They separate a moment later and Bucky coughs slightly to dissipate the awkwardness of crying in front of another person. Kate doesn’t seem to mind, though—she just wishes him goodnight and returns to her room, walking in as quietly as possible so as not to disturb America. She closes the door behind her with a soft click.

Bucky looks around the hallway before taking the cup downstairs—the light in Wanda’s room has gone out, and the rest of the bedrooms seem to be quiet. He assumes they’re all sound asleep.

So it’s not entirely his fault that, when he goes down to the kitchen and sees Steve in the dark standing over the sink, he startles and drops the glass to the floor. It shatters with a crash, making Steve jump and whip around, pulling out his wand in defense, wielding that dumb piece of wood like one would wield a gun.

“Fuck,” Bucky curses, and looks around desperately, searching for a broom.

“Bucky,” Steve breathes, in what sounds like relief. “God, you scared the shit out of me.”

“You scared the shit out of _me_ ,” Bucky throws back. “I thought you were asleep.” Stepping over the glass shards, he reaches for the broom, which he has found located in a corner—on the very opposite side of the room from him.

Steve hands him the broom before he can get there, taking the dustpan for himself. Bucky smiles sheepishly at him and starts to sweep up the broken glass. It slides across the floor with loud, sparkling scraping sounds.

As he sweeps, he thinks of what to say to Steve. He’s not sure how to broach the topic—his memories. He doesn’t know what to say, exactly. _Hey, I remember that you and I were in love and our souls were melded together into one and, uh, so how about that? Neat, right?_

“So,” Bucky starts. “What were you doing standing in the kitchen in the dark?”

He looks up in time to catch Steve’s mouth twitch up in the approximation of a smile. “I was, ah, downstairs, finishing a potion. I just came up here to wash my hands.”

Bucky looks up at him, blinking in surprise. “Not—”

“No,” Steve says, before Bucky can finish. “Not the cleansing potion.”

Bucky stares at him, then drops his gaze back down, where the glass sparkles in the weak moonlight streaming through the window. It’s quiet except for the sounds of the broom and the glass scratching over the floor. Steve turns around, pocketing his wand and moving back to the counter. He seems to be searching for a lid for a bottle that Bucky hadn’t noticed before—the potion Steve’s just made. He hadn’t noticed before, but the kitchen smells a little bit like the brownstone back in Brooklyn—the gentle smell of different oils and flowers, the scents that Steve likes to put in his different salves and concoctions. Bucky’s favorites had always smelled like sandalwood.

He rolls a few ideas around in his head, trying to decide what to say to Steve. He wants to be honest.

“I had a conversation with Natasha yesterday,” Bucky mumbles.

He’s not sure Steve’s heard him until he turns and raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh?” he asks, and it makes Bucky wonder if Steve already knew that or not. He didn’t consider the possibility that Nat may have called him, too.

He finishes sweeping, getting all the glass shards into a sharp little pile. Steve bends down and places the dustpan next to it and Bucky sweeps the glass into it.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, taking the dustpan from Steve’s hand. He walks around the island in the kitchen to deposit the glass into the trash can. It hits the bottom of the can with insultingly bell-like sonance. “I don’t think that what we see is… I feel like there’s something that we’re missing. Like they’re going to be walking into a trap or something.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, “Natasha is fine. The whole squad has got it covered.”

Bucky’s mouth twists. He doesn’t doubt their abilities, but he’s nervous anyway. “I get that. I just… I’m worried.”

“About what?” Steve looks confused. “If not Nat, then…?”

Bucky sighs. He knows what he’s about to say is far-fetched, but still, he figures he might as well, now that Steve is intrigued in the conversation.

“What if…” He taps the dustpan on the side of the trash can, making sure every piece is gone. “What if Rumlow comes here?”

Steve looks surprised, and Bucky’s kind of grateful that he doesn’t all-out laugh at him. “What?” he says, smiling in a way that’s probably supposed to be reassuring but just looks forced. “Buck, Rumlow isn’t going to come here. It’s damn near impossible.”

“I did it.” He looks at Steve when he says it, and sees the guy flounder for a second.

“I mean, yeah,” Steve allows, “but that was only because the wand was leading you directly here. And, might I add, you didn’t do it without a couple scratches.”

Bucky frowns. Yeah, that’s true. But Rumlow might not walk up here—maybe he has other resources, maybe he has means of transportation that they don’t know about. Bucky tells him as such.

Steve rests a hand on his arm. “Bucky,” he says. “I’m positive that Rumlow can’t find us. Believe me. This place is off the map, there’s no records of it except in Tony’s files, and he’s unhackable. There’s no way that Rumlow could get up here, even if he wanted to.”

“Steve,” Bucky says. “You don’t know this guy like I do. He has every reason to come up here. Guy was a fucking nut, okay? And we’re getting close to the trial. If he takes out me and the Seers, then there’s no eyewitness accounts that the Wolf Spider Program or Project Insight was in effect. It could knock a lot of years off their sentences.”

Steve looks at him. “So what do you want to do about it?”

“Well, first, I’d like to get the kids back into routine training. Maybe harness their skills for offense instead of defense this time.”

In the span of a second, Steve’s gaze changes from curious to closed-off. His eyes get hard and cold in what Bucky has come to recognize as Steve’s expression when he gets extremely protective or defensive over something—more and more these days, that _something_ tends to be the Seers.

“Absolutely not,” Steve says.

Shocked, Bucky turns on him. “What do you mean? Why not?”

“They’re just kids, Bucky,” Steve says. “Why should I teach them how to _hurt_ other people? Can’t they just be kids for a little while longer?”

“Not when their lives are on the line,” Bucky shoots back. “Don’t be stupid, Steve.”

“There’s no way anyone could get up here,” Steve says evenly. “And even if there was, you and I would be more than enough to hold them off.”

“You’re being naive,” Bucky says. “You shouldn’t take that risk. C’mon, Steve.” He walks around the island so they’re standing closer together, so Steve can see his pleading expression in the darkness. “Peter’s finally settling into his familiar form. Kate is a whiz with the bow and arrow, America is super strong and Wanda can levitate things with her _mind_.” He laughs and throws his hands out. “How can you say that we shouldn’t hone those abilities? They’re powerful, Steve. If someone took them again and they couldn’t defend themselves, that could be bad.”

Steve frowns. “My answer is no, Bucky. They’re kids. They don’t need to be slapped with a reality that might not even be true.”

Angry, Bucky spits out, “Guess I should have seen that coming, huh. You said no when I said I wanted to be on Nat’s operation for legit reasons, too.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at him, and Bucky knows that what he said has struck a chord. He’s no at all surprised when Steve says, sternly, “This again, Bucky? You _know_ what our options are. Either the cleansing spell or nothing.”

His voice is nearly a growl as he says, “That’s low, Rogers.”

“What?” Steve replies, feigning ignorance, throwing his hands out. “It could help us, Buck!”

“God!” Bucky snaps. “You still know just how to piss me off!” He’s scowling deeply, his teeth grinding together so hard he’s giving himself a headache. “Stop doing this to yourself, Steve! It’s not okay, and it’s definitely not cute.”

“I’m not trying to be cute,” Steve shoots back, his tone well-past annoyance and bordering on steely. “I’m trying to give you what you want.”

“No,” Bucky says, stepping forward and poking his chest hard. He has a fleeting thought that he must look ridiculous, his eyes blazing with anger as he holds a broom and dustpan in one hand and pokes a very large, broad man in the chest with his other. “You’re not trying to be helpful. You’re trying to be a martyr. And you wanna know the one thing martyrs all have in common, Steve? They’re all fucking _dead_.”

“The curse won’t _kill_ me, Bucky,” Steve snaps back. Bucky can see that he’s losing his patience, and Bucky kind of wants to see what will happen when Steve finally gives up control to his temper. “I can see only good things, here.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Either way, one of us inherits the curse, and maybe that means one of us ends up without magic! That’s not the ideal situation I had in mind!”

“Just—” Steve throws his hands out in exasperation. “Why? _Why_ won’t you let me do this? You’re not giving me a straight answer, Bucky, and I—”

Bucky kisses him.

It’s not gentle, and he’s definitely not nice about it. He kisses Steve hard, trying to tell him everything, because he’s driving Bucky _crazy_ in every possible way. It drives him even more wild when Steve opens his mouth and starts to kiss back, meeting Bucky’s frustration and passion with his own.

And oh, God, isn’t that something.

Whatever Steve was about to say goes unspoken. That’s fine, in his opinion. They’ve done enough talking for now.

His hand goes to Steve’s hair. It’s longer than it was the last time they did this; it’s nice, Bucky thinks, to have a solid handhold. Steve groans a little when Bucky tugs on it, and he delights in this discovery. He’ll have to keep that in mind for later.

Bucky’s other hand drops the broom, and it falls to the floor with a wooden clatter. He uses his newly freed hand to grip the back of Steve’s neck, and Steve’s hands fall to his waist and hold fast. Bucky huffs in satisfaction when Steve bites his lip, and oh, God, why did they wait so long to do this? His skin is on fire wherever Steve touches him, and every memory that he’s found suddenly shifts into high relief.

No one, Bucky thinks, no one knows how to fuck with him like Steve does. He knows just what to say to make Bucky unfathomably mad; he knows just how to push his buttons and knows how to make him frustrated enough to cry. But he also knows just how to kiss him, knows just the right way to move his mouth and make Bucky fall apart. He knows just how to thread a hand through his hair, how hard to bite his neck in order to make him shudder. And, he thinks, if events were to go that far, Bucky knows that Steve would know just how to turn him on, just the right way to fuck him, to make him lose his mind and spiral into pleasure. Steve knows just how to love him. And Bucky can’t believe that it took him this long to act on it.

Because, if Bucky’s honest, he knows just how to love Steve back.

After an indeterminable amount of time, the two pull apart, breathing heavily. Steve leans his forehead against Bucky’s while they try to catch their breath, and Bucky leans back, fitting a hand to his neck to hold them together. Finally, after his heartbeat has calmed to a normal speed and an eternity of silence, he leans up to press a final, chaste kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth, and pulls away from his grasp.

“Does that answer your question?” Bucky asks. In the complete stillness of the kitchen, his question seems to echo through the room. The moonlight dances through the window, and Steve’s skin appears silver in the dim.

And when Steve doesn’t readily give Bucky an answer, he turns, goes back upstairs to his room, and settles in for another sleepless night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


	14. Muscle Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so late, i did camp nanowrimo all throughout july and this project got put on the backburner. but now that that's over, i can pay full attention to this baby! hurray!!! 
> 
> ive had this chapter planned since like.... forever. over a year at least. it's 6000 words of FEELINGS
> 
> (also warning bc the explicit rating comes into play here. wink wink)

######  **STEVE**

Steve doesn’t sleep well.

He lies awake in his bed, thinking about what happened with Bucky in the kitchen. Steve is a dweller—he thinks on things until he drives himself crazy, and this is something that he knows he’s going to think about for days, for weeks. Sometimes he wishes he could just turn his brain off, make his head go quiet. Especially during times like these—times where he’s exhausted, but his mind is racing around, running in circles like a headless chicken.

He picks apart every detail of his interaction with Bucky—cleaning up the glass, their argument, their kiss. Bucky saying in that low voice, _Does that answer your question?_  Steve hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, but he kind of thought that the last time they kissed—over a year ago, in the brownstone—had been their  _last_ kiss. Their  _final_ kiss.

But it seems like they get a second chance. Bucky—whether he remembered their past together or not—seemed to return Steve’s affections.

And didn’t _that_ just make him goddamn giddy. And nervous.

Steve can’t deny that he’s been wanting this for a long time. He and Bucky have always been a team—since birth, they’ve had each other’s backs, were made to complement each other’s magic, belong to each others as two halves of the same True Bond. They’re good, apart. They’re great, apart. But together, they become more than the sum of their parts. They complement each other in a way that nears perfection. Bucky keeps Steve from being such a pig-headed ass, and Steve keeps Bucky from returning completely into his shell and becoming a grumpy old man.

Perfection. Truly.

But Steve doesn’t want it if it’s for the wrong reasons. If Bucky feels like he’s obligated, if he’s only doing this to make Steve happy, then Steve would rather leave it. He wants Bucky to be happy, even if it means he’s not happy with him.

Steve gets up early that morning, not having slept a wink. It was very late when he and Bucky talked, and so it’s only a few hours to reach early morning. Steve tossed and turned all night, but he was consumed by thoughts of the future, about what Bucky told him with the kids, about Bucky’s feelings.

When Steve goes downstairs to make breakfast, he’s the first one in the kitchen. The kids don’t seem to be awake yet, as it is very early—about 5 AM—so he gets started on breakfast. He decides to make something more elaborate this time and finds that he has all the ingredients he needs for blueberry muffins.

He gathers his ingredients as he looks on to his StarkPad for the recipe he looked up online. He gets all the things he needs and sets to baking, and then realizes after he’s put the muffins in the oven that the kids will probably want something more than just tea and bread.

He gathers the fruit that’s left in the house—a few bananas, a carton of strawberries, and the remaining blueberries. Then he finds jam, all the way in the back of the refrigerator, but still good. He takes the first batch of muffins out of the oven just as America and Kate start coming down the stairs.

“Hey,” he says when they wander into the kitchen.

“What smells good?” America asks. Her hair is wild around her head, looking like a lion’s mane.

“Muffins,” Steve says, pulling them from the oven.

“Hell yes,” Kate says, reaching out with grabby hands, “give me one.”

Steve snorts. “They’re too hot right now. Go sit at the table.”

“Boo,” Kate frowns but does as Steve instructed, and goes to sit at the dining room table, pulling America behind her.

Steve puts the second batch into the oven and scrapes the remaining batter from the bowl. There’s not enough for a full third batch, but he thinks that’s fine.

While he waits for the timer to go off, he can’t help but think of what Bucky said last night, about training the kids to reach their full potential. He hasn’t forgotten about their abilities, so he’s kind of miffed that Bucky would imply that he has. Just because he’s teaching them to control their abilities for themselves rather than for the purpose of fighting doesn’t mean that he’s a bad teacher. The kids haven’t complained so far, either, so he figured it didn’t bother them.

Why do they have to grow up faster than they should? Can’t they be kids—can’t they go as they’ve been going? They’re safe up here—they’re just as they should be, protected from the rest of the world. There’s no way that they could be found up here, no matter what Bucky thinks.

The longer he thinks about it, though, the more he sees to Bucky’s side of the story—the kids have been through a lot, and it would probably make them feel better to be able to harness their abilities for their own protection. But that doesn’t mean that they should immediately go for the offense! Steve knows that, with their power, if they weren’t careful, they could easily kill somebody.

… Which is probably another reason why they should learn to better control themselves, rather than not.

God-fucking-dammit.

He hates when Bucky’s right.

The timer goes off, pulling him from his thoughts. He blinks, taking a second to come back to reality, and fetches the oven mitt.

He puts a kettle of water on the stove to boil and then grabs their last remaining box of tea. Just as Steve has pulled the last batch from the oven to cool, Peter waltzes into the kitchen.

“Ohh,” he says. “Are those blueberry?”

“Go sit,” Steve instructs.

Peter pouts at him but turns to go to the dining room. “Fine.”

A few minutes later, Steve comes out with the finished breakfast—fresh fruit, jam, cottage cheese, the muffins. Steve is just glad that the muffins smell good, and he’s happy with how they look. He’s not much of a baker, but he thinks they turned out well. He places everything on the table.

“Oh, muffins,” Wanda says as she walks into the dining room. She settles into her spot next to Peter, immediately reaching for the plate to grab one. “What’s the special occasion?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Steve replies. “Figured I might as well do something productive. Who wants tea?”

“Me,” America says. Steve rounds the table to pour her a cup. Then he moves to go to Wanda, who is simply holding her cup up expectantly, a little smile on her face.

“Do we have coffee left?” Kate asks.

“Yeah, but you’ll have to brew it yourself,” Steve answers as he pours a stream of the hot, cinnamon tea into Wanda’s offered cup.

Kate groans. “Just tea for me, then.” Steve reaches over to pour her some as well.

“None for me,” Peter answers. “Pass me a muffin.”

Wanda places a muffin into Peter’s outstretched hand. He carefully peels away the paper liner before taking a big bite that leaves crumbs all over his face.

“These’re really good,” he says, mouth full, voice muffled.

“Don’t just eat those. Eat some fruit,” Steve commands. “I don’t want to waste any.”

“These have fruit in it,” Peter answers.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Fruit that’s not mixed with sugar and fat, Parker. Go.”

Peter grumbles as he takes a helping of fruit and a spoonful of cottage cheese.

 

Bucky never shows up to breakfast, a fact that Steve is highly aware of. He sits at the table for a long time after the meal is finished, nursing a mug of tea, hoping that Bucky’ll at least walk in and pick at some of the leftovers. But he never shows, and Steve gets tired of waiting.

About half an hour after the others cleaned up, Steve sighs and stands up from the table, gathering his dirty dishes and bringing them to the kitchen. He hand washes them in the sink and then sets them in the drying rack next to the others.

When he walks out of the kitchen and into the living room, he’s surprised to find Peter sitting on the couch, phone in his lap and headphones in his ears as he listens to something on his phone. When Steve enters the room, though, he takes out his headphones.

“Hey,” he greets.

“Hey, Pete,” Steve replies. He crosses the room to grab his book, which he’s set on the table by the couch. He’s about to leave and go to his room upstairs when Peter’s voice pulls him short.

“So,” he says. “What’s going on with you and Bucky?”

Steve stops, book in his hand. He turns around, feeling a wry smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “You noticed, huh?” he asks.

Peter smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It wasn’t that hard to miss, dude.” He wraps his headphones loosely around his phone before setting it on the couch next to him. “What happened?”

“It’s complicated,” Steve says, stepping hesitantly back into the room. After a second, he decides to sit on the couch next to him. “I’m not… entirely sure what we’re going to do from here.”

“You guys don’t hate each other, right?”

“What? No!” “Of course not. What makes you think that?”

“Well, you guys have been fighting a lot recently, and I… I don’t know. I’m just being dumb.”

“You’re not dumb, Peter,” Steve says sternly. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“I, uh… I just hope you guys patch things up. Because, ah, it’s like… ah, crap,” Peter wipes at his face, and Steve looks closely to see tears on his cheeks, hastily brushed away. “Just, I hope you guys make things right.”

“Yeah? And why’s that?” Steve asks. As if in response to Peter’s tears, Steve’s eyes begin to prickle.

“I don’t know. I… I don’t really…” Peter looks like he’s struggling to find the words when he stumbles and starts again. “Okay, listen. My parents died when I was young, and I was raised by my aunt and uncle. My uncle died a few years ago, so it’s just been me and my aunt since then. But the point is, I don’t really have a lot of family. But you all make me feel like I do—you, and Bucky, and Wanda, America, Kate. And when you two are fighting, it’s not the same. Okay, I’m done now.”

By the time Peter has finished his statement, Steve is fully crying.

“C’mere,” Steve mutters, reaching an arm over Peter’s shoulders.

Peter leans in and gives Steve a one-armed hug that lasts barely ten seconds. They both scrub hands over their faces, trying to make the tears dissipate.

“Bucky and I don’t hate each other,” Steve assures. “We’re just disagreeing on some stuff. And I’m going to make things right between us, alright? I’m sorry if this puts stress on you.”

“It’s just. Everyone seems to be fighting. You and Bucky, Kate and America…” Peter blows out a breath, wiping a hand over his face. “I just want everyone to stop being mad at each other. You guys are just… I don’t know. You’re both, like, really…” He stops, and then settles on, “I like you guys.”

Steve laughs and pats Peter’s back. “I like you, too. You’re a good kid, Peter. I’ll talk to Bucky. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

Peter doesn’t seem to believe him completely, and Steve squeezes his shoulder reassuringly before standing up, already making up his mind that he’s going to talk to Bucky tonight, no matter if he’s ready for the conversation or not.

+++

It’s evening, and Steve hasn’t seen a sign of Bucky all day. He wasn’t at breakfast or dinner, and Steve is starting to feel a familiar nervousness well up inside him. Talking things out has never been something that Steve is completely confident in. He’ll do it, yeah, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to like it.

To clear his head, he takes a shower. Steve stands under the spray for fifteen minutes, his mind completely blank, before he comes back to himself and starts washing up. Just in case, he starts thinking of things to say, so he’s not completely empty-handed when he goes to Bucky to talk.

When he steps out of the shower, he looks at his phone and winces when he realizes that he was in the shower for nearly thirty minutes, but he has to admit that he does feel relatively more relaxed than he did before. He gets dressed in sweats and a t-shirt and runs a hand through his still-damp hair. Before he can second-guess himself, he leaves his room and goes across the hall to knock at Bucky’s door.

He’s even more surprised when Bucky answers the door, wearing jeans and a flannel button-down, his hair up in a small bun and looking far better put-together than Steve is at the moment.

“Hey,” Bucky says, breathes. Steve doesn’t miss the way his eyes flit up and down his form, taking in his faded cotton t-shirt and holey sweatpants.

“Hey,” Steve replies. “Can we talk?”

Bucky looks Steve for a lingering moment, his face unreadable, before he nods and steps aside, allowing Steve into his room.

Steve hasn’t really been in here before, not for longer than a passing glance or sweep of his eyes.

When the door is shut behind them, Steve looks at him. He doesn’t waste time with small-talk, just gets straight to the point.

“You didn’t come out of your room today,” Steve says.

“Couldn’t sleep last night,” Bucky admits. “I slept through breakfast, woke up just after twelve. Then I didn’t know if you wanted to see me.”

“Of course I want to see you,” Steve says, with a small shake of his head. “Bucky—” His eyebrows pinch together, and he looks down, unsure of where that sentence was going to lead. After a second, he just explains, “I’m tired of fighting with you. I’m tired of not talking to you. I just want to get everything figured out, and then we can stop being so angry with each other.”

“How?” Bucky asks. “We’ve made our positions pretty clear, Steve, and they don’t fit together.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t compromise.” He shifts from foot to foot, already feeling uncomfortable. He just hopes that Bucky will be up for trying to talk things out, rather than dissolving into another fight. “That doesn’t mean we can’t talk it out and figure what the other’s side is. Right?”

Steve searches Bucky’s expression, and he looks guarded but is otherwise unreadable. For a moment, Steve thinks that this is it—that Bucky isn’t going to go along, is going to choose to be stubborn again, and to force Steve’s hand. But the moment passes, and he watches as his shoulders relax, a strand of dark hair falling from his bun, and Steve knows then that he’s going to try, at least, for his sake.

He watches Bucky shake out his hands and look down, off to the side, as he says, “I’m scared. That Rumlow will hurt the kids. Or you. Or—me. That’s why I want to teach the kids more to do with their abilities. So they can protect themselves. And each other.”

“Okay,” Steve says, nodding, considering. “And I’m… I’m afraid that they’re going to worry themselves sick if they think there’s a direct threat to their safety. They’ve been through a lot and I don’t want to just pile survival training on top of that.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, nodding. “I understand. But I still want to be prepared for anything.”

It sucks that Steve knows what he has to do. It sucks that he knows that Bucky is right, at least to some degree. Steve isn’t used to admitting fault, but today, he swallows his pride, says, “We could start small. A low-level training regimen, so they’re doing something. But it’s not super stressful.”

Bucky twists his lip. He seems to want to go drill sergeant, wants to give it 100% right out of the gate, but he doesn’t get mad. “They already have base-level understandings of their abilities, Steve,” he says, and he can tell Bucky’s trying not to push super hard. “Maybe intermediate instead of low-level? Maybe?”

Steve thinks about it, taking a deep breath. He needs to stop being a helicopter parent, he’s well-aware. He needs to stop trying to protect everyone from everything, he  _knows_. But it’s hard.

“Okay,” he relents, with a sigh. “Okay. That should work. Do you want to train them or should I?”

“We can do it together,” Bucky murmurs. “It doesn’t have to be just you or me. Okay?”

“Alright. Alright,” he agrees, looking at his feet. After a moment of silence, he peers back up at Bucky, saying, “And… the other thing?”

It takes a second, but soon Bucky opens his mouth to reply with a flat, “I’m not doing the ritual with you, Steve.” He sounds slightly more defensive than he did a moment ago.

“I didn’t say you should,” Steve replies primly, burying his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “I didn’t say anything, actually.”

Eyes flashing, Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. “Then what do you want?”

Steve’s heart is starting to beat faster, and he can feel them winding up to something, he just doesn’t know what. At this point, this could go either one of two ways—either Bucky punches him and tells him to get out, or…

Steve steels himself and says, “I want to know why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you won’t let me do it. And… why you kissed me.” Because Steve has a sneaking suspicion that the answers to both of those question are one and the same.

Bucky stares at him, jaw muscles twitching. “You know why, Steve,” he says softly, like he’s trying to break the bad news to Steve in a way that won’t make him upset. But he’s not letting Bucky get away with an answer like that, no sir.

“I need you to say it,” Steve replies, equally as gentle. “Please.”

Bucky looks at him, and he knows what he’s going to say before he ever even opens his mouth. Steve steps towards him, and it feels like there’s a light unfurling in his heart, a brand new star.

“Because I love you, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs. “Because I’ve been in love with you for—fuck, I don’t know how long. But I can’t… I can’t let anything happen to you, or the kids. And… and that’s it. I love you. I’m not letting anything that happened to me in the past  _touch_ you. Even… even if…” He trails off, gaze dropping, and Steve feels his heart swell a million times.

“I don’t want anything to hurt you either,” Steve says. “You know that, right?”

Steve is sure he knows, but he wants Bucky to understand why they’ve been butting heads, wants to know why they’ve been in conflict with each other—they both want to protect each other, but that means putting themselves in the line of fire. 

Bucky nods, understanding. It almost hurts to see.

“Did you… remember us?” Steve asks, and he’s kind of afraid to hear the answer, but he figures he should ask anyway.

Bucky looks up at him, and the rims of his eyes are wet. If Bucky cries, Steve is going to lose it. “Not until yesterday,” he admits. “But I loved you without them. _Before_ that.”

He doesn’t look like that twenty-something kid that Steve met two years ago now—his jaw is sharper, his eyes are grayer, his hair is darker and longer. He looks like he’s aged ten years in the span of two, but Steve loves the way he looks, still.

Steve smiles, and for the second time that day, he felt like crying. “Good. I’m—Buck, I don’t want you to feel obligated to—”

“I’m not going to do anything I don’t want to. Never again,” he interrupts, and shit, when did they get so close? They’re just a breath away from touching, and he’s about to step back and say, _cool, well, let’s sleep on it_ , when Bucky derails that thought before it can even formulate into words.

“Can I kiss you?” he questions.

And Steve answers by leaning in and closing the distance between them, the previous conversation completely forgotten.

His eyes fall shut like a feather falling to the floor, and he opens up for Bucky so easy. Flower in the sun. They stand there for a while, trading kisses, and Steve feels lightheaded, feels like his heart is full to bursting. He doesn’t know how long they stand there, but before he knows it, there are hands sliding up his back, firm and with a purpose. His t-shirt rides up in their grip, and suddenly there are no boundaries between them.

Bucky keeps a firm grip on Steve’s face, fingers digging in, and the mood suddenly shifts 180 degrees; it’s always zero to sixty with this guy—Bucky doesn’t seem to know how to be gentle with him anymore, doesn’t know how to kiss just to kiss. Steve is okay with that, though. Likes it, even—there’s a steadily burning heat, low in his stomach to show for that. He likes Bucky’s forceful affection, likes the hard grip on his waist, likes how it’s so hot that it suddenly feels like he’s drowning in an ocean of fire.

Likes it a bit too much. Fuck.

Steve pulls back, chest heaving. “Bucky, wait.”

“What, what?” He looks bewildered that Steve would stop them when they seemed to have such a good rhythm going, and slightly worried that something’s wrong.

He sighs, planting a hand on Bucky’s chest and pushing him back a step. “We shouldn’t—hey, we ought to go slow,” he reasons.

Confused, Bucky says, “Okay. I mean, if that’s what you want?”

“I mean—well, not particularly,” he admits. “But—”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts. “I love you. Have been for a long fucking time. I’m sure, I’m positive, that I’m ready for this right now. And if you are too…” He leans back in and nips Steve’s lip, heat sparking at the point of contact and shooting throughout his entire body. “Well, what’s stopping us?”

“Fuck,” Steve curses, against Bucky’s mouth. He can feel his control slipping, and he can’t really see any flaw in Bucky’s logic, not when he knows that he wants this just as much. “Fuck, Bucky—okay. Fuck! Okay, you win.”

“Good,” Bucky says darkly, pushing at Steve’s chest until his back hits the wall. The breath rushes from his lungs as Bucky reaches up to kiss him again, this time so much closer. He angles his head to get deeper into his mouth, and God it’s filthy and wet and hot and Steve _loves_ it. Then Bucky shifts over slightly, puts a thigh between Steve’s legs. He angles he knee just far enough upwards, right where his cock is hardening between his legs.

“Ah,” Steve groans.

“Shh,” Bucky hushes. “Quiet down, Stevie.”

Steve gives him an unimpressed look for that but manages to stay quiet as Bucky steps back and rids himself of his clothes, undressing in a methodical, military-like manner. He rids Steve of his shirt with the same efficiency, and he manages to hold back a yelp as Bucky’s hands slide down, grab handfuls of his body, and pull him into bed with him. Steve gets the picture and lets himself be manhandled, easily slotting himself just where Bucky wants him to be. A leg slips between Bucky’s thighs, his hands steady themselves on the bed and then move to wander over his bare torso as they kiss.

Steve’s still wearing his sweatpants. He thinks, vaguely, that maybe he should have taken them off before they got into bed, but his mind goes blank when he feels Bucky run his hand down his spine, to the small of his back, and underneath the cotton his sweats.

Steve wants to learn him again, properly this time. He never really got the chance to, before everything. They’d only gotten to do this once before he was taken away.

Now, Steve isn’t here to fuck around for a little bit and call it good. No—Bucky deserves better than that. He deserves to feel good, as good as he possibly can feel.

Steve’s got athlete’s hands—big palms, long fingers. Bucky loves them, he knows this. His skin is rough but he keeps the touch itself soft; he glides over Bucky’s skin, feather-light and gentle, even when he just wants to dig his fingernails in. Steve’s hands come to a rest at Bucky’s waist, thumbs rubbing little concentric circles onto the space just below Bucky’s ribs.

Bucky shifts so that he’s gripping the back of Steve’s neck, winding a hand into his golden hair. His hair is longer now, and Bucky runs a hand through it, grabbing a good handful. Steve is embarrassed by how much that turns him on, and he tries his damnedest to stifle the groan that rattles its way up his throat. He’s getting hard, his hips moving a little, back and forth—a slow, unconscious grind. Bucky crooks his leg up just a fraction so Steve can feel that friction that he’s searching for, and this time he lets out a low groan, trying to keep it as quiet as possible.

Steve can feel the exact moment Bucky’s breath hitches. He slackens his grip on Steve’s neck for just a second, allows Steve to pull away to breathe. He doesn’t go very far, just an inch between them, and rests his forehead against Bucky’s.

“Ah,” he breathes.

Bucky grins at him wolfishly, like he wants to swallow Steve whole. Steve can tell that he’s falling apart much quicker than Bucky is—he seems to be in control while Steve is coming apart at the seams already.

“Bucky,” Steve says, because he has to be sure, he needs to know before they get past the point of no return. “You like this, right?”

Bucky looks at him with an expression that says, _uh, yeah, no shit._ “Of course I do,” he snarks. “You think I would be doing this if I didn’t want to?”

Steve’s face heats up, and Bucky doesn’t take pity on him. He just grins like he knows exactly what Steve was thinking. He probably does, to be honest.

“Oh, I see,” Bucky says. “What is it, sweetheart? Am I doing something wrong? Am I too quiet? What, you can’t feel that I’m—”

“Fuck you,” Steve bites.

He tries to keep his expression stern, even as Bucky starts dragging his fingertips up Steve’s thigh over the fabric of his sweats. He smirks, and Steve feels like he’s about to fucking lose it. “I like making you feel good,” he murmurs. “And I like watching you, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Steve says, unimpressed.

“Yeah?” Bucky smirks, very pleased with himself. “It’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?”

Steve’s breath hitches as Bucky rolls them over, reverses their positions. Gray eyes look down to meet his, sharp and focused, very much in the present with him. Steve’s heart starts to beat just a little bit faster.

“I’ve got you,” Bucky promises, voice dipping low. He kisses Steve gently, nips his lip, and moves downward, crawling down his body.

Kisses on the cheek are okay, and kisses on the jaw are good, but what really gets Steve going are kisses to his neck. When Bucky first moves his attention there, Steve’s breath becomes heavier for just a moment, and his hands move to grip Bucky’s arm tighter for a second before releasing.

Upon hearing Steve gasp when he drags a thumb over a nipple, Bucky smirks just a little but continues on dragging his lips down Steve’s stomach, biting him softly where he deems necessary and kissing everywhere else. Finally, Bucky kneels between his thighs, eyeing the bulge in his pants with a look of smugness.

“Fuck off,” Steve says, but that seems to just make Bucky even more pleased with himself.

Bucky reaches up and gently shucks off Steve’s sweats and boxers in one movement, then nudges Steve’s legs further apart before he rests himself on his stomach, bringing himself eye-level with Steve’s dick.

That’s a picture that Steve is going to remember forever—Bucky eyeing him like he can’t get enough, like he’s going to keep coming back to Steve for more, like he’s never going to be satisfied, no matter how much they do this.

It’s muscle memory more than anything when Bucky takes him in his mouth, sucking slow and hard. Steve squirms a little as Bucky makes it good for him, but not staying consistent enough to make him come—changing the pace, his technique, keeping Steve guessing. The only thing that stays constant is Bucky’s left hand around the shaft, gripping tight over where his mouth can’t reach, jacking slowly in time with the movements of his mouth. Steve reaches down and rests his hand on Bucky’s head, gripping his hair loosely. His hips twitch a little, and Bucky uses his free hand to pin him down, which equally frustrates Steve as it does turn him on.

By the time Bucky pulls off, Steve is sweating and he feels like he’s about to fall right off the edge.

“Reach up to the drawer. There’s lube in there,” Bucky mutters.

Steve follows his instructions, opening the drawer and reaching around blindly to find what he needs. His fingers finally make contact with a plastic cylindrical bottle, and he pulls it out with an air of triumph. Bucky smiles as he takes it from him, and Steve settles back into the bed as he waits for Bucky to continue.

He rests his head against the pillow, inhaling the scent of the sheets, lavender laundry soap. He tries to calm his beating heart, taking deep, even breaths.

Bucky leans down again and takes Steve back into his mouth as his fingers work inside him, taking his time, making sure to get it right. One finger, eventually two, going slow because it’s been a while for the both of them. When Bucky finds the right spot, and Steve jolts and lets out a low groan.

To be honest, he’s usually pretty quiet during sex—he doesn’t moan loudly, he doesn’t scream or yell. But as Bucky continues with his ministrations, the air is littered with the sounds of Steve’s small hitches of breath, his little hums, his occasional swear.

“Oh, fuck.” Steve squirms a little in Bucky’s grasp, and Bucky tightens his grip on Steve’s thighs, pushing him back down to the mattress. “Fuck, fuck.”

“You’re okay, sweetheart.” And Steve can just hear the smirk on his voice, the asshole. “Just hold still.”

“Like I’m not _trying_ ,” Steve gripes, eyes pinching shut. “C’mon, Buck. C’mon.”

Bucky returns to his task, sucking him hard, his head bobbing up and down. Steve tries very hard to hold still and not choke him, but it’s a difficult thing. His legs shake and shake, and there’s the briefest flash of white behind his eyelids.

“Bucky,” he warns. “I’m gonna…”

And Bucky pulls off, pulls his fingers out. He starts jacking Steve with his free hand, grip tight and hard, and Steve gasps as he finishes, a wave of pleasure washing over him, and he’s helpless, unable to do anything but sit there and drown in it.

When he comes back to reality, he looks down to see Bucky kissing up thighs to his stomach.

“C’mere,” Steve says, putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and pulling him up. Bucky crawls over Steve, the sight of his desperate expression enough to make Steve get ideas. He wraps a hand around Bucky’s dick once he gets close enough, his grip slack and slow, barely even a tease.

“Steve, c’mon,” Bucky whines.

“What? You too wound up to talk shit now?” Steve says, pleased.

“Fuck you,” Bucky mutters, and Steve laughs softly before he tightens his grip and moves just that much faster, fascinated by the sight of the head of Bucky’s dick disappearing and reappearing in his grip.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky breathes.

It takes only a few minutes to work Bucky to completion. Steve watches his face, fascinated as he comes with a groan that he muffles by biting Steve’s shoulder. Slowing to a stop, he releases his spent dick, using his clean hand to run through Bucky’s hair, and grip a handful. He pulls Bucky’s head up so he can kiss Bucky with fervor, biting his bottom lip.

“Ah,” Bucky says against his mouth. “Fuck.”

“Did you like that?” Steve asks, pulling away so he can see his expression.

“Of course I fucking liked it, you ass.” Bucky grins at him. “Like you need me to inflate your ego any more, Christ.”

Steve laughs helplessly, pulling him in for another quick kiss. Then he leans his head back into the pillow and sighs, content.

“I love you,” he says.

Bucky smiles, small and private, just for the two of them. “I love you, too, Steve. Even if you are a huge tease.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Fuck you. You love me _because_ I’m a huge tease.”

“Whatever. You can’t prove anything.”

After about fifteen minutes, when they’re done lazing around in bed, Steve throws on his pair of sweatpants and goes down the hallway to get a drink of water from the bathroom faucet, filling a little paper cup and downing it like a shot. He refills it several times until he’s done, and grabs a washcloth on his way out, for good measure. Bucky used tissues to clean off the brunt of the mess but he wants to be sure.

And when he turns the corner, he’s horrified when he sees Wanda standing just outside the bathroom. He definitely looks like he just had sex, with his hair all mussed and still slightly shiny from sweat.

Wanda just blinks at him, taking in his appearance, plus the washcloth in his hand. Then she smiles knowingly.

“Did you and Bucky have a good _talk_?” she asks innocently.

Damn him for blushing so easily. He goes red from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck.

Steve grunts and makes his way past her in the cramped hallway, where she refuses to move in order to make things as difficult as possible for him. Steve wants to die. He feels himself blush even harder when she laughs as she witnesses him return to _Bucky’s_ room.

Steve locks the door just so she can hear it lock, and turns back to where Bucky’s lying on his bed, still naked and all stretched out, the sheets woven around his limbs, and he forgets all about anyone else in the world except for the two of them.

“Took you long enough,” he grins. “What, did you get lost or something?”

“Fuck off, Barnes,” Steve says, kneeling on the bed so he can lean over Bucky and run the washcloth over his stomach.

“Mm,” he hums. He reaches an arm up, hooking his hand around Steve’s neck and pulling him down. “C’mere.”

“I’m busy,” Steve says, fighting back a smile to keep his face blank.

“Yeah? Too busy to kiss me? _C’mere_ , Rogers.”

Steve rolls his eyes and lets the smile break over his face, small and terribly fond. “You’re a menace,” he tells Bucky, even as he leans down to kiss him again, this time slow and exploratory. Bucky parts his lips and Steve takes the hint, deepening the kiss without any sort of fuss, just an easy exchange of affection like they’ve been doing this for a hundred years already. Steve forgets about the washcloth as he settles down next to Bucky so he can reach him better. The bed welcomes him back like an old friend.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bucky says as they break apart.

Steve looks down at him, where Bucky is pillowed between his arm and his torso. He peers up Steve, awaiting a response.

“ _You_? Thinking? That doesn’t sound right,” he chuckles, and then yelps when Bucky punches him in the flank. Not very hard, but still.

“Ow,” he whines, rubbing his hand over the spot.

“Don’t be a dick,” Bucky says fondly. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Thinking about what?”

Bucky’s mouth twists and Steve can’t tell if he’s trying to hold back a smile or a frown. He shifts then, sitting up a little more in order to show Bucky that he’s listening to him.

“Buck?” he prompts, when Bucky doesn’t answer him.

“I’ve been thinking,” he repeats, “that maybe I should let Natasha handle the thing with Rumlow. Until we figure out a better way to get rid of the curse, I shouldn’t… you know. Go near him.”

The relief that floods Steve’s heart is a physical, palpable feeling—the stress that had been plaguing him for weeks now gone. It must be obvious on his face because Bucky scowls a little bit.

“Stop being so happy. And don’t thank me. I’m not doing this for you.” Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. “And that’s not to say that I don’t still think that this whole thing with Rumlow might be a trap.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, babe,” Steve says as he leans in to kiss the pout off his face. “God, I’m so happy. Thank you.”

“ _Don’t thank me_ ,” he says grumpily, though the breathiness to his tone suggests that he’s not too mad about it. “I didn’t—”

“Do it for me, yeah, I know,” Steve finishes. He smiles when he pulls away, grinning wolfishly. “Doesn’t mean I still can’t enjoy it.”

“You’re an awful man,” Bucky declares. “An awful, _awful—_ ”

But Bucky is cut off when Steve leans in to kiss him again. When he kisses Steve back, lets his eyes fall closed, Steve decides that Bucky must not be too mad about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school is starting soon for me so updates might not be as frequent. i'm kinda sad bc i thought i was going to get the second part of the "fairy tales to astonish" series up but i just didn't have the time between work and all this other shit. hopefully i'll finish this before september is over, and then i'll work on finishing my other projects!


	15. Believe You Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall, sorry for the extremely long wait for this chapter. i got so busy with school! so fucking busy! and the worst part was that this chapter was mostly finished beforehand, but there were some key components missing, so i couldn't post it until just now. but here it is! i wont make any promises for when the next chapter will be posted, but im trying my hardest to write.

######  **STEVE**

Steve wakes up alone. When he opens his eyes, the room feels still and quiet. The mountain sunshine makes the curtains glow, a sliver of light trailing the the floor. He doesn’t want to move; he feels like he’s been caught in amber, suspended in this exact moment in time. If he shifts, he’ll shatter it.

There’s a moment where his mind is blank, where he’s not plagued by thoughts or anxiety. But then the morning rushes in, and he blinks himself truly awake.

Eventually, he has to move. Steve throws the blanket to the side and stretches out, his joints cracking in a satisfying way. He thinks and wonders if last night was a dream—it would make sense, really. When was the last time Steve actually handled a problem head-on rather than waiting for it to either fix itself on its own or disappear completely?

But when he takes a look at himself, the evidence is there: a bruise on his thigh, not quite cleared from last night’s activities. Another one on his clavicle, which he can feel when he lays his hand over it. And, of course, the fact that he’s bare-ass naked.

Steve reaches over to the nightstand and grabs his phone off the charger, idly looking at the the time and the date.

Natasha’s operation is happening soon, in six days, precisely. Later this week, Natasha promised Steve that Rumlow is going to be in custody in time for the trial.

Things are rolling right along. With the trial and Rumlow’s capture looming in the near-future, Steve is kind of sad to think that this whole thing might be coming to an end; once the trial goes through, once Rumlow is out of the picture and behind bars, once Hydra is dead and in the ground, they will all be safe to go home.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that. But, if there’s one perk that came from this whole operation, it’s that Steve won’t be returning home alone—Bucky will be right there by his side.

Also, he looks at the time.

Fuck, the time!

He seems to have slept in _three hours_. Fuck. The kids are probably up already, and he hasn’t cooked breakfast. Steve scrambles out of bed like a kid about to miss the morning school bus. He puts on clothes in a haphazard manner, then has to stop and go slower because he realizes he’s put on his t-shirt inside out. Once he’s got everything all figured out, he hurries down the stairs, only to find Bucky already at the table, placing a plate of food down in front of America, his other hand gripping another plate. One looks like a plain cheese omelette, while the other has a sprinkle of vegetables on top. Peter and Kate already have food in front of them, their mouths already full.

“Hey,” Bucky says, grinning. “Decided to join the living?”

Steve stares at him, feeling what it’s like for the first time to be a Seer, like he’s peeking into a part of his life that hasn’t happened yet: a future where he and Bucky live together, where Bucky is setting a plate of food in front of a blonde-haired little girl, who greets Steve with a gap-toothed smile. Then the present rushes up to meet him, and he’s sling-shotted out of the vision so quickly he nearly gets whiplash.

“Smells good,” Steve says faintly. “Did you make some for me?”

“Not yet,” Bucky says, grinning. “Come help me in the kitchen.”

Steve narrows his eyes at him. Bucky winks and sets the vegetable omelette in front of Wanda, who gives him a look with lots of eyebrow action. He pushes down the urge to stick out his tongue like a four-year old.

The Seers start chattering animatedly while Steve and Bucky go to the kitchen, where Steve sees Bucky start to crack two eggs into a bowl to start the omelette.

“What do you want in yours?” Bucky says.

“Uh,” Steve says, because he’s still not entirely sure what is going on. “Cheese. Tomato. Uh. Spinach.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re simple as hell, Rogers.”

“Why mess with a good combination? At least I don’t put literally every single topping inside my omelette ever, like _some_ people.” Steve crosses the kitchen to join Bucky by the counter, where there’s half a tomato waiting on a cutting board from earlier. Steve begins to cut it into small pieces.

“Is there something you’re trying to tell me, Steve?” Bucky says, smirking.

“Not at all, Barnes, no.”

Bucky takes his wrist in hand, stopping him from cutting the tomato. Steve looks over at him. He recognizes that look in his eyes. But he isn’t going to give in so easily, though—it would be no fun if he did.

“You need something?” he asks.

Bucky tilts his head to the side, his grip tightening over Steve’s wrist just a fraction. “I think you already know,” he murmurs.

“Buck…” Steve whispers, then snaps out of it. “Not here.”

Bucky groans, but he does pull back, releasing Steve’s wrist, going back to the stove. He pulls out a whisk and starts to beat the eggs with perhaps slightly more force than necessary. “Then don’t fucking tease me.”

“You like it,” Steve says.

“No. Maybe. Fuck you,” Bucky says, and Steve notices the tips of his ears turning pink. Huh. Good to know.

Bucky is quick to make the omelette, pouring the egg into the pan and frying it. He takes the ingredients Steve has chopped and works in relative silence while Steve watches, listening to the sizzle of the pan and the low murmur of conversation from the other room.

“Are we training the kids after this?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods. “That was what I was thinking.”

Steve smiles, then pats Bucky on the back playfully. “Then hurry up, Barnes. We don’t got all day.”

Bucky rolls his eyes as he transfers the still-steaming omelette to Steve’s plate. “I’m not the one who slept half the day away.”

“Fight me,” Steve snarks. He ignores Bucky sticking his tongue out at him and goes to the dining room, plate in hand.

+++

Two more days pass, and the operation date looms closer and closer. With each day, Steve becomes more and more conflicted.

Bucky gave the green light to Natasha to go forward with the operation two days ago. With a sigh of exasperation, she told Steve over the phone that she had _kind of figured that already, thanks_. They’re set to raid Rumlow’s apartment in the early evening, just a few hours. Natasha promised to call as soon as Rumlow is in custody, so Steve is a little anxious today. Things are finally going according to plan, for once.

However, not everything is perfect. While the compromise is nice, it still doesn’t settle the question of Bucky’s curse—he’s still unable to do magic. During the training sessions with the kids, he sticks mostly to hand-to-hand combat. It makes Steve sad to see him try to train with Peter only to be unable to change into his familiar form. Steve fears that if they wait much longer, he’s going to lose his familiar form completely.

For now, though, he puts the thought of Rumlow out of his mind, and turns to thoughts of the kids, how well they’ve been progressing. Especially Peter, the most surprising of the group.

Bucky had told Steve that Peter had finally learned to control his phasing in and out of his familiar form, but that hadn’t been all—once they started regular training sessions, Peter admitted that he could basically transform into anything he wanted, if he was thinking about it hard enough.

Steve had just finished sparring with America, who has gotten much stronger since the last time Steve trained with her. Steve was barely able to keep up with her, considering she’s much smaller and faster than he is. He taught her how to land a long jump without hurting her feet or blowing out her knees, which she was actually quite grateful for, but she started using her speed against him, which he was not happy about.

During a mandated break for water, Steve saw Bucky and Peter talking across the room, and could hear their conversation as he moved closer.

“I don’t know,” Peter said to Bucky. “Is that supposed to happen? Like, when I don’t think about it, I turn into a—I don’t know, a dog of some sort. But when I think about it, I can turn into whatever I want.”

“No, that’s not normal,” Bucky said, eyebrows twisting. “I thought you were settling.”

“I was! I—I am.” Peter frowned. “I don’t know. But it’s not like I’m completely helpless. I can control what I turn into.”

“Show me. Then change right back,” Bucky said, looking curious more than anything else.

“Okay. I’m gonna turn into a… I don’t know. A mouse,” Peter said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Boo!” Kate said in the background. “Turn into something cool!”

Peter looked offended. “Like what?”

“Like a _hawk_! Hawks are badass.”

“Hawks are lame,” America scoffed.

Kate gasped, looking betrayed. “Babe, I can’t believe you would say that.”

Steve looked back to Peter, who looked unimpressed. But Bucky just ignored them and moved forward.

“Can you do a raven?” he asked.

Peter smiled at him and said, “Sure. Just a sec.”

It was less than a minute. Peter changed into a raven, waddling around with measured steps. He flapped his wings to show he could, and then changed back to human Peter, who was sweating a little with the effort.

Now Steve was thoroughly intrigued. “How about a fox?” he called, his water bottle forgotten.

Peter shrugged. “I’ve never done that one before, but I can try.” Again, after a moment of thought, Peter transformed into a red fox, sitting at their feet and swishing his tail.

Bucky and Steve shared a look from across the room.

Bucky started to smile, just a hint of a thing. “Peter… do you think that maybe… that’s what your ability is?”

“My… ability?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Like how America’s strong as hell and Kate has super senses and Wanda’s, like, really weird?”

“Hey,” Wanda protested.

“You mean turning into different animals?”

“Yeah. I mean, it would make sense,” Bucky said, whose eyes grew distant as he lost himself in his thoughts. “Hydra was all about emphasizing the traits and the powers that were already there. So you were already a familiar, but now you’re—”

Peter grinned, cutting Bucky off mid-sentence in his excitement. “Steve! Cap! I do have a power! I can shift into whatever I want!”  

“Good for you, kiddo,” Steve called back, but a smile was spreading across his face, too.

+++

Though they try, three days later everyone knows. Steve told himself that he would inform the others of his and Bucky’s rekindled relationship _only_ if they explicitly asked about it, and Wanda told Steve that she wouldn’t tell anyone else, because it was not her business to. Steve appreciated the effort, but in the end it was all for naught.

Bucky, Steve, and Kate are all in the kitchen one night that same week; Steve prepares dinner, chopping an onion while Bucky dries the dishes he’s just finished washing. Kate is searching mindlessly through the pantry, probably rummaging for something to eat even though dinner is going to be done with in less than a half hour.

Steve cuts the chicken breast into smaller pieces, then starts searching for seasoning—Wanda had brought him a fuckton of dried sage and rosemary earlier that she had grown in the window of her room, and she had dumped it on the counter for him to use before retreating to the living room to read her book.

He’s mixed together all the herbs he’ll be using on the chicken—thyme, sage,  rosemary, and black pepper—but he’s missing the salt. When he sees it’s not immediately in front of him, he glances over to Bucky.

“Hey babe,” Steve says, “could you hand me the salt?”

Bucky dries his hands quickly, reaches into the cabinet and pulls out the salt container, thunking it against the counter next to him.

It’s too late when he realizes what he’s said. Bucky realizes it, too, and freezes when he hands the salt to Steve. Their eyes flick to each other’s, wide.

It’s quiet for a moment, and then two of them turn to look at Kate, where she’s standing in front of the refrigerator with a bottle of orange juice in her hand, her mouth dropped open.

“Wait. What did you just say?” she asks Steve.

It’s amazing, Steve’s instincts for self-preservation. Because even though he knows, from the get-go, that this is a hopeless ordeal, he stills tries to salvage what he can from the situation. Which isn’t much.

“I asked Bucky if he could hand me the salt,” he says primly.

Kate smiles, amused at his attempts to put her off. “No, you said _babe_ ,” she says, that grin wide enough to split the corners of her mouth. “And Bucky _listened to you._ ”

There’s the pattering of feet as someone comes down the stairs. Steve barely pays attention to it, now trying to will a hole open in the ground just by pure force of will, wishing the be freed from his embarrassment. If only he had his wand.

Steve scoffs, but it sounds too high-pitched to be real. “I said no such thing,” he insists. “I definitely said, ‘Hey Buck, could you hand me the salt.’”

“I have a superhuman sense of hearing, Steve. Don’t pretend like I _misheard_.”

Steve hears two sets of feet approach the kitchen—he turns to find Wanda and America wander in.

“What’s going on?” America asks, just as Wanda says, “What’s happening?”

“Steve called Bucky ‘babe,’” Kate replies, like a _tattler_.

America gasps. “Oh my God, are you two dating?”

“Who’s dating?” a new voice asks. Steve resists the urge to slap his forehead as _Peter_ waltzes in. Their kitchen is _much_ too small for this.

“Bucky and Steve,” Kate answers.

A smile dawns on Peter’s face, his expression lighting up like a Christmas tree. “I knew it!” he exclaims.

Bucky looks at Wanda, accusatory. “I thought you said you didn’t tell anyone!”

“I didn’t!” Wanda says, holding her hands up in the air.

“Bucky,” Steve hisses, just as Kate says, “So you admit it!” and America whines to Wanda, “You _knew_ ? And you didn’t _tell_ me?”

Wanda’s eyes narrow at her. “It wasn’t my business! Or yours!”

“I have a right to know if my dad is dating my other dad,” America replies mildly.

“Hey,” Steve protests. “We’re not _that_ old.”

“Am I the only straight person here?” Wanda implores, mostly to herself, completely ignoring Steve’s statement.

“I highly doubt that,” Kate replies.

“What? That I’m the only straight person here?”

“No, I highly doubt that you’re straight.”

Steve looks around the room as everyone dissolves into giggles. “Jesus Christ,” he says, moving back to the stove before dinner becomes completely unsalvageable. “Everyone out of the kitchen.”

“Can I get something from the pantry?” Kate asks.

“No,” Steve says. “Dinner’s going to be ready soon.”

She pouts as she makes her way out of the kitchen, saying something that vaguely sounds like, “Okay, _dad_ ,” but soon seems to forget her hunger as she starts chattering with the others about—whatever. Steve turns his attention to dinner, wondering how the fuck he’s going to focus now. He quickly salts the chicken, sprays cooking oil on the pan, and then dumps the meat gracelessly into the pan.

Steve turns his head as he feels Bucky wrap his arms around his waist from behind, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder, looking down at the pan as he cooks.

“I thought I said ‘everyone out of the kitchen,’” Steve says mildly. He doesn’t want to let on how much he loves it when Bucky does this—it’s quickly becoming his biggest weakness.

“Figured you wouldn’t mind,” Bucky murmurs. He lays a kiss on the bolt of Steve’s jaw, making Steve have to suppress a shiver. _Damn him._

“Barnes,” Steve says in warning. “Don’t act like I don’t know what you’re up to.”

Bucky just continues laying kisses down Steve’s neck, knowing exactly what he’s doing. Steve frowns deeper.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” Steve says. “Especially when there’re children with heightened senses of hearing in the next room.”

Finally, Bucky pulls away with a smirk. On his way out of the kitchen, he slaps Steve’s ass playfully, making him yelp.

“Fuck you, Barnes!” Steve calls at his retreating form.

“ _Language_ ,” Bucky says, turning back with a mock-scandalized gasp. “There are _children_ present.”

“Bite my ass,” Steve snarks back.

Bucky shoots him a smile and a wink that says, _Maybe I will_. However, he exits the kitchen before Steve can get even more worked up. Thankfully.

Now free of distractions, Steve is left to cook in peace. He whistles a tuneless song as he sets the rice to cook and then puts the chicken to cook in a pan.

Cooking has become a mindless task, something so familiar and second-nature that he barely has to think as he goes through the motions. Hearing the Seers talking in the other room with Bucky, Steve has to admit that he’s settled quite comfortably into this life. Living with the Seers, spending day after day in the mountains, secluded, away from the hustle and bustle of society—it’s easy to forget that it hasn’t always been this way. Which, yeah, he knows that’s an issue. Pierce’s trial and Rumlow’s capture are looming closer and closer. Within the week, Rumlow will be in custody, and once the trial is over, the kids will have no reason to stay here. They’ll go back to their families, and Steve and Bucky will do… something. He’s not sure what.

Steve doesn’t know if he wants that. Selfishly, he wants to keep living this life, even though he knows that’s not possible.

Dinner is ready within the half hour, and Steve calls everyone to the dining room. He has Wanda set the table as he serves everything onto plates. Bucky helps him carry the dishes ito the other room, and it kills him how domestic everything is. It kills him how well they all work together, like they’ve lived together for years, but he’s going to lose it all so soon.

 

Dinner is a pleasant affair, as usual. The conversation flows. Jokes are told. The kids are all tired from working all day, but they seem happy to have gotten the routine back, even if only for a short time. For the first time, everything feels perfect. The kids are all content, the ends all tied into a neat little bow. The operation is far from Steve’s mind, his thoughts only focused on finishing dinner so he and Bucky can get a second alone.

They finish their food, going back for seconds. Once they’ve had their fill, Everyone takes their plate to the kitchen sink, chattering loudly the whole way.

So it’s quite surprising when Wanda drops the plate she was holding, and it clatters to the floor. It doesn’t break, but the sound it makes is enough to make Steve jump, turning around quickly. Conversation ceases immediately, the room falling deadly silent.

When Steve looks to her, he immediately knows that something is wrong. Her eyes are glazed over, her head tilted back as she receives a vision powerful enough to pull her from her senses.

“Wanda?” he asks tentatively.

“Call Natasha,” she murmurs, far away.  

“What?” Bucky asks, perking up at the sound of his friend’s name.

“Call Natasha!” Wanda says, even from the throes of a vision. “ _Now_.”

 

######  **WANDA**

Visions like these always take it out of her.

She hasn’t gotten one in a long time—a vision of the future. Ever since she started practicing controlling her other abilities, she hasn’t dealt with a single intrusive vision, which is good news, for her. When she first got here, she saw them all the time.

This is the first time in months that a vision has personally gripped her and ripped her out of reality.

In her mind’s eye, she can see the operation. The operation that Steve speaks about only in hushed tones, down the hallways. The operation that is supposed to track their case’s prime suspect: the operation to arrest Brock Rumlow.

She met Natasha only a handful of times, but she’s easily recognizable with her red hair, pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. She leans over a monitor, watched over the shoulder of some woman in a white button-up shirt.

Thermal imaging shows a man—Rumlow, she believes—to be wandering around his apartment. They’ve watched him long enough to figure out his schedule to the day, to the hour. Wanda inherently knows this, the same way sleeping people know things within their dreams.

“He’s home,” says the woman wearing the white shirt.

“Yep,” Natasha says. “Now’s our chance.” She reaches to the comm on her shoulder. “You in position?”

A voice grates over the radio comm. “We’re on the ground, Barton is in the sky. Everyone’s here.”

Natasha smiles. “Alright. Move in, Sam. I’ll be right behind you.”

Another voice rumbles over the comm. “Copy that,” Sam Wilson says.

She presses a button and the back wall opens, showing a street—Wanda realizes that they must be in a van of some sort—and she moves out the door, Wanda following her. Natasha changes into her familiar form, trotting across a mostly-empty street.

The scene changes and suddenly Wanda is in an elevator with Sam and Nat as they ride up to the 14th floor.  Wanda vaguely thinks of how ridiculous it is, waiting for the bell to ring cheerily and tell them they’ve arrived. Natasha hastily redoes her ponytail while they wait.

When they make it to their floor, they pull their guns out, ready to fire. Nat goes first, Sam right behind her.

The scene changes again and they’re in a hallway, turning and twisting to get to their destination. They’re silent as they move, quiet as ghosts. They reach a door at the end of the hallway, and Natasha steps to the side of it while Sam stands in front. She gives him a nod, and Sam nods back. He kicks down the door with all his strength, and the door flies open, chips of the doorframe going with it. Natasha springs inside, her gun up and ready, Sam to the left of her.

The apartment is sparse, the walls covered in papers and clippings. Maps, mostly, with locations circled and crossed out. Various spellbooks as well; sharp-looking sigils cover the floors, used candles and blood-stained gauze litter the table.

Except Rumlow isn’t there.

Rumlow isn’t there, but there is another man: a man of Rumlow’s exact height, weight, and build—with a bomb strapped to his chest.

The vision disappears, falling from her eyes like a curtain dropping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is that a plot??? oh no!!!  
> pls tell me if there are any glaring errors; i think i caught all of them but if i didnt then please...... dont hesitate to tell me or ask questions for clarification


	16. Freight Car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the evil cliffy and then leaving you all hanging for like 3 months! but i'm here now with another chapter! and with that pesky plot thing!  
> it's also a little shorter because there's a lot of dialogue, but it felt weird ending it anywhere else. but i hope you like it! we're so close to the end--one more chapter and then an epilogue, which I'll probably post together. :)

######  **BUCKY**

“Call Natasha,” Wanda says, her eyes a thousand miles away.

“What?” Steve asks, confused. He casts Bucky a worried look, but gestures for him to get his phone.

“Call Natasha,” she says, more insistent. Her eyes still look eerily distant, glazed over as if sleepwalking, caught in the throes of a dream. “ _Now_ ,” she insists.

Bucky whips his phone out of his pocket and starts searching for Natasha’s number. God, why won’t his hands stop shaking?

Bucky has seen the diviners get visions before, but none this intense. He’s reminded of the first time he saw them all, strapped into Pierce’s machine, the electrodes connected to their foreheads, taking down their predictions while they sat, nearly comatose, in those awful chairs with their wrists strapped down. The phone nearly slips and falls from his grip, but he tightens his fist at the last second to keep it steady.

Just as she gets out of the vision, her knees buckle, but Steve is right there to catch her.

“Wanda,” he says, worried. “What did you See?”

“Natasha—” she says, “I had—it’s a trap—there’s a man in the apartment—”

Bucky finally makes his hand work, calling Natasha and putting the phone to his ear. It rings three times before she answers.

“Hello?” she says, her voice quieter than usual.

“Nat,” Bucky breathes. “Wanda just had a vision. You can’t go into the apartment. It’s a trap.”

“I know,” comes the voice on the other side of the line.

 

######  **NATASHA**

Her phone is ringing. She silently curses herself for not turning it off beforehand, but she had a lot on her mind.

“Who is that?” the man with the bomb on his chest says. He’s weird. That’s the only word to describe it. Nat wouldn’t say that he’s too calm for the situation, but he seems both too confident and also very, very afraid.

Without lowering her gun, she reaches into her front pocket and pulls out the phone. It’s Bucky.

_Shit_ , she thinks. Now is really not the best time.

“Answer it,” the man says. Nat suspects that he got a peek at her phone screen.

Keeping her eyes locked on him and her other hand not wavering an inch, she answers the call and brings the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Nat,” Bucky says, sounding out of breath. “Wanda just had a vision. You can’t go into the apartment. It’s a trap.”

“I know,” she says.

“Give—give me the phone,” the man says.

“No,” Natasha says immediately.

“Let me talk to him.” He looks terrified, and Natasha doesn’t think that this is an act. Especially not when he says, “Please.”

Natasha stares at him, her face impassive. She takes the phone away from her ear and puts it on speaker.

“James,” she says, “there’s a man here who wants to say something to you.”

From the phone, Bucky’s tinny voice answers, “Okay?”

She looks at the man standing across from them, her eyes glancing over at Sam for just a second. His face betrays no emotion, but she feels that he’s a little apprehensive about her actions. She looks back at the man, noticing a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead. He’s starting to lose his cool.

“He wanted you to know,” the man says in his tremulous voice, “that—that—he’s not unreasonable.”

“Who?” Natasha barks.

The man practically whimpers at the harshness of Natasha’s voice, but she couldn’t control her tone if she tried.

“The man,” he says. “The—the man with the brown hair. He… he was in my house.”

“What’s his name?” Bucky asks over the line.

“He never told me his first name. He just—said his name was ‘Rumlow.’”

There’s a deafening quiet that settles over the room. Natasha’s mind runs through a million different scenarios, trying to figure out where she slipped up and let everything go to shit. Her voice turns to steel when she speaks next.

“Where is he now?” she demands.

“I don’t know,” the man stutters. “He just wanted… he wanted me to tell you that he’s up for negotiation. He said he either takes James Barnes, or he’ll accept a Seer, the rest can go free… he doesn’t hurt you or your families.” The man’s voice breaks, catching on the last word. He shakes his head, looking down. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“A Seer?” she asks.

“Yes,” the man says, voice quavering. “He’ll take one of the… band of misfits, he called them. Wanda, Peter, America, Katherine… Any one of them, and the others are free to go.”

“Why?”

“To rebuild the empire,” the man whimpers, shifting on his feet. His face is so shiny with sweat.

Her hand on the gun tightens. “And if they don’t listen?”

“Then he’ll get creative.”

She hated the sound of that. Pressing her lips together, her mind fires rapidly, thinking of a thousand things at once.

“Fuck,” Nat says. She hangs up the phone before Bucky can say anything more and looks to Sam, saying, “We have to go.”

“No!” the man says, frantic. “I can’t let you leave. He said he’d hurt my family if—”

For a moment, Natasha considers her options. She could order Clint in—he’s right across the street. He could break the window, cause a commotion. But the man might panic and push the button. She could order the rest of the squad in, intimidate him. She could shoot the man in the foot or the knee, and he’d probably drop the detonator, meaning they could pick it up and run with it. Or just shoot him in the head, save the trouble. While Natasha believes that Rumlow is a big enough asshole to hurt some poor man’s family—his wife and/or kids—she also thinks that he’s in a rush right now, and might not even be near them.

She tries a different route for now. “What’s your name?” she asks him.

He hesitates, seeming confused by the question. “Ellis Strickland,” he says, after a moment.

She leans into the comm on her shoulder. “Did you get that?” she murmurs.

“Already on it,” Peggy answers, her voice tinny over the comm. Natasha can hear the faint clack of a keyboard, Peggy typing with her manicured fingernails. “Looking him up right now.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Why you?” she asks. “Why did he choose you, of all people?”

The man—Strickland, she supposes—shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“They’re similar heights and builds,” Sam offers. “It would be easy to mistake them for each other, with thermal imaging.”

Probable. But she’s upset that she didn’t see it earlier. It makes her uneasy that Rumlow would be able to get the drop on them, to know so much about their operation. How long has he been listening in? How long has there been a chink in their armor?

“I’ve found them,” Peggy says. “They’re in an apartment building about three blocks from here, apartment 6G. We could send Clint over if you like, see if they’re safe. Or I could get them on the phone.”

Natasha shifts her grip on the gun, her palm beginning to sweat. Fuck. The intensity of the situation is starting to become palpable. Usually she is so clear-headed, so level, so resistant. But These are her friends in trouble—Steve and Bucky are some of the only people that she’s allowed herself to get close to, and she feels responsible. The pressure to make the right decision makes her hesitate.

Sam glances over at her, then leans in to his comm. “Send Clint. If he can’t get a read on the situation, call.”

Strickland doesn’t seem to relax at the idea. Natasha steps to the side, getting a different angle. She watches out the window as Clint steps out of his hiding space on the building across the street from them. She can see his blond hair bobbing as he walks around for a second, before shrinking into his familiar form and taking flight. They wanted to use him as a last resort—hawks in the city tend to draw a bit of attention, but the situation is dire.

It takes only a few moments before Clint returns to the comms, saying, “I have a visual.”

“On the apartment?” Peggy asks. “You see them?”

“Six-G, yeah,” Clint answers. “The mother is in the living room, she’s watching TV. The kid is…” He pauses, then says, “In her bedroom. She’s drawing on the walls… in Sharpie. Oof. No sign of Rumlow, and they don’t seem to be in distress.”

Strickland seems to be warring with himself. He eventually says, “What do they look like? The people?”

Clint rattles of a description—the woman has straight black hair, olive skin, wearing gray sweats and a white t-shirt, and the girl has light brown hair in a ponytail, wearing a pink overall-dress.

“She’s a great artist,” Clint adds. “You should get her a sketchpad. For the sake of your walls.”

“You can speak with them if you like,” Peggy offers. “We could get them on the line.”

Strickland seems to be on the verge of a decision, his eyes lighting up. The description of the people in the apartment seems to have softened something in his heart, but he still seems confused and afraid. Natasha is sure for a moment that everything is going to be fine.

Then, however, his face shutters, lips drawing into a thin line and eyes going hard. “I don’t believe you,” he says. “You’re just saying that to get me to let you go.” He frowns, shaking his head. “I’m not taking the risk.”

He’s lost the stutter in his voice, the shake of his hands and the sweat on his brow. His eyes are cold and he looks completely resolved, and Natasha knows that they’ve lost.

Well. Plan B it is, then.

Natasha takes a moment to evaluate, and then acts. She lowers the gun, quick as a flash, and shoots him in the foot. Strickland shouts and drops the detonator, which she picks up, her hand shooting out to close around the remote.

Now, the man really looks distressed, openly panicked. Not in control of the situation, he seems to be completely falling apart.

“Jesus, Natasha,” comes Peggy’s voice through her comm. Yeah, whatever. She got the detonator and that’s what matters.

Natasha says, “You’re going to get on the ground and take off the bomb. And then we’re taking you in.”

The man nods, very nearly close to hysterics. He drops to the ground, the blood from his wound staining the carpet. Natasha prays for the security deposit of whoever rents this place.

She takes her comm from her shoulder and turns away, leaving Sam pointing his gun at the man on the floor. “Clint,” she says into the radio, “get him medical attention. Get him in contact with his family and make sure everyone is safe.”

Natasha strolla down the hallway, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Crisis averted, kind of.

“That was a rash move, Natasha,” Peggy’s voice says over the comm.

“I don’t care,” Natasha says. “And we have bigger problems right now.”

“Like what?”

Natasha punches the down button on the elevator, holstering her gun. “How did he know we were coming?”

 

######  **BUCKY**

“Bucky…” Steve’s voice cuts through his concentration, making him falter in the task at hand. “Come on, don’t do this.”

Bucky could have sworn he locked the door, but maybe Steve found a way to jimmy the lock. Or, better yet, get Wanda to open it for him. She’s quite capable.

He doesn’t even pause as he starts pulling down ingredients from the shelf of the downstairs workspace. Ingredients for protection spells, banishment spells, endurance potions, food replacements. “You need to pack. You and the others, you all need to get out of here.”

“Hey, c’mon…” Steve steps forward and takes his hand, but Bucky pulls back.

“What?” Bucky snaps. “I have to do this, Steve. You heard Rumlow. He’s going to be coming, Steve. And if you guys don’t get out of here, then he’ll probably try to take you all, too. I don’t believe a word he says when he promises the rest of them can go free. He’s bluffing. But if I’m here, maybe I can slow him down.”

“Until he says the magic words to turn you into his blunt instrument again!” Steve exclaims. “There has to be a better way, Bucky. Come on. At least think about it.”

“My mind’s made up, Steve. I’m sorry.”

Steve sighs, the sound thick and shaky. Bucky doesn’t look, because he knows Steve is on the verge of tears, and if he sees him like that, then they’ll both be crying.

“I don’t… I… I don’t want to see you leave again,” he admits quietly. “I can’t sit around waiting for you, not knowing if you’re ever coming back.”

Bucky glances down, his eyes clouding over for a second, but he knows that if he cries now, he’ll have lost the fight. “I can’t promise that I’ll come back, Steve. I—I’m doing this because I want you guys to be safe. That’s what’s most important to me. Please, go get the others. Alright?”

“I…” Steve is clearly torn, and Bucky hates doing this to him—Steve has already lost Bucky once, and to ask him to do it again is ripping both of them apart. But Bucky truly believes that this is the best course of action. He can’t see another way in which everything works out together to bring the fairy tale happy ending. He looks away, finding the book to start hastily putting together the spells and potions that he needs. If he works fast enough, maybe he can get a few finished in time before the others leave, and he can hand them off.

“You need to go,” he repeats. “And I need to do this. I’m sorry.”

“Buck,” Steve starts, and when his voice cracks, Bucky feels it in his chest, “I’m not strong enough to lose you a second time. I can’t do it. I won’t.”

Try as he might, Bucky isn’t strong enough to do it either, but he swallows the lump in his throat, abandoning the ingredients for a quick moment and taking a step closer to Steve. He puts his hands on Steve’s forearms, metal against skin.

“I don’t want to do this, either,” he admits, voice a low murmur. “But sometimes there are things bigger than us that need our attention. I love you, and I know you love me, too. But you have to stop believing that you’re only happy when I’m around, because I know that’s not true.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” Bucky interrupts. “Steve… These kids, here. They _love_ you, they look up to you. And I know you love them, too. Take ‘em somewhere safe, alright? Let them make you happy. They’re dying to see you proud of them.”

“They love you, too,” Steve argues.

Bucky looks down, brow furrowing. “I know they do. And I love them, too. That’s _why_ I have to do this.”

Steve leans their foreheads together, bringing a hand to rest on the side of Bucky’s neck. Bucky leans into it, the warmth spreading through his body like ink in water. He closes his eyes, letting himself feel the contact and focusing only on that.

“I love you,” Steve tells him. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Bucky murmurs. “I’m sorry, alright? Now go upstairs. You need to pack and get the kids out of this place before anyone shows up on the property. It’s a few days’ hike down the mountain.”

“Bucky…” Steve frowns. “Isn’t there another way? Can’t we think of something?”

“I think we’re on our own for this one,” Bucky says grimly.

Steve stands there, the words sinking into his skull slowly, his thoughts drowning in the chaos of his mind.

They stand there for a few more moments, reluctant to part. Bucky brings his hand up to Steve’s face, and Steve leans into it before turning his head to kiss his palm. Then he falters.

“Wait,” Steve says.

“What?”

“I…” He frowns, taking hold of Bucky’s arm. He flips over his hand to the scar slashed across his palm, the one he got from the night they Bonded.

“It’s bullshit,” he murmurs.

Bucky frowns. “What’s bullshit?”

“This! All of it!” He reels back from the vehemence of Steve’s tone, the sudden burst of loudness in the still room. He grips his hand tighter, thumbs digging into the center of his palm. “Bucky, we’re a pair. We’re a True Bond, me and you, witch and familiar, Steve and Bucky. We’re a package deal. And I get that you want to protect me, but… we work better together. You’re not just my True Bond, you’re my soulmate. You’ll have to be out of your mind if you think I’m letting you go again.”

“ _Steve—_ ”

“ _Buck_.”

“—this isn’t just a matter of teamwork. We have to be _smart_.”

“We are smart!” Steve insists. “Buck, come on. I think… I think there’s a way we can do this without you getting hurt. Or any of the kids getting hurt.”

Steve pulls Bucky over to the table, taking out the spellbook that he’s been basically glued to since the moment Bucky arrived here. The alchemy book. Bucky hates the sight of that thing, but he can’t help but feel a spark of hope at Steve’s words.

“I know you don’t like it,” Steve murmurs, “but I think we can use it to our advantage.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

“We’re a team, Buck,” Steve says. “We work best when we’re together. You don’t have to go in alone. _We_ can do this.”

“What are you saying?” he asks, his heart twisting with nervousness but also—strangely enough— _hope_.

“I… Okay,” Steve takes a deep breath, eyes closing for just a second before he continues, “I have a plan. But you have to hear me out. Alright?”

Bucky is hesitant. He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt on account of him—not ever again. But Steve does have a point. They work well together because they were meant to work well together. And he trusts Steve—if he thinks it’s possible, then he can damn well try for him.

“Alright,” Bucky concedes. “What’s your idea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't proofread this at all <3


End file.
